


one for sorrow

by occultine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angry Nico di Angelo, Drug Use, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Implied Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Jason is a Dork, M/M, Nico is a Dork, Nico-centric, Oops, Percy is a Dork, Poor Nico, Sad, Sad Nico di Angelo, Slytherin Nico, Weird Plot Shit, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-07-02 18:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15802383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occultine/pseuds/occultine
Summary: one for sorrowtwo for joythree for a girlfour for a boyfive for silversix for goldseven for a secretnever to betoldand this–(these are the final minutes of his youth)–this is where it all beginsNICO DI ANGELOHARRY POTTER UNIVERSE





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I don't really know how this is going to turn out bc I have virtually no ideas rn?? But?? Thank you for reading??

CHAPTER ONE; HONEYED WORDS

 

He is a stranger here, an unknown, face unrecognisable, his identity kept under lock and key. He blends into the crowds with his head low and his hands in his pockets, the leather of his jacket catching onto bags and jewelry as he pushes past sweaty bodies. Cigarette smoke fills the air and his ears ring, so that he barely hears the drone of chatter on the busy streets. 

They are crowded. Far too, if he is to be honest. Too full of men who have been told to never cry and women who have been told being a women in itself is degrading. Too full of teenagers whose friends are dead with a bullet in their head and others who would never leave their rooms if they could. 

The streets are crowded, far too, and he pushes past tourists and ducks under outstretched arms. The leather soles of his boots slap against the concrete. Grey clouds gather above. 

His dark dark eyes are strained forward, looking over shoulders and onto the stretching streets. There is a figure, glowing softly in the dying sunlight, winding through the crowds with a spectral mist around their blurred outline. The ghost is a girl, young, a teenager, he guesses, and her hair falls in gentle waves and a tattered flannel shirt is tied around her waist. She glances behind, and for a second, a fleeting moment he barely notices, their eyes lock and his dark dark irises meet her ghostly silver eyes. 

Then she smiles, and maybe it means nothing, maybe it's a test, and her head tilts upwards and he can see the long scar along her neck. Maybe it means nothing, maybe it's a test, but nonetheless, his feet move without his mind and he's pushing through the crowd as he breaks into a run. 

-

She looks younger as grows closer, fifteen maybe, like himself. Her boots barely touch the wet pavement as she darts into an alley nearby, and like a shadow he follows, dark, unruly hair spilling from the black beanie on his head. 

For a second, the ghost keeps her eyes on her feet, fingers entwining and smile quickly dropping. “I know who you are,” she says, and her voice is silvery and sweet and dipped in honey, spilling from her lips as though they are poison disguised with sugar and spices. 

“I would hope so,” the boy says, and he outstretches a slender hand and looks at her under dark lashes. The ghost shakes her head, eyes finally meeting his.

“I know who you are,” she repeats, swallowing thickly, but this time her words aren't honeyed and instead broken by fear and anxiety, and his eyes narrow and his outstretched hand drops to his side. “And I -we- need you help.” 

“What? What are you talking about.” He frowns as he speaks, and a finger reaches up to the girl’s -ghost's- chin, tilting it upwards to search her eyes looking anywhere but at him. “Who are you?” He adds, after a moment, and when she doesn't reply the hand under her chin moves to run through his raven-coloured hair, dislodging his hair from the beanie even further. 

Eventually, after what could have been a minute, or a second, maybe, it is hard to tell, the ghost speaks. “I’m a...witch. Was, I guess.” She laughs bitterly, hollowly, and the boy’s dark dark eyes focus on her once more. “And there's a man, no not a man, a monster,” she continues, her voice shaking a little, as his eyes widen slightly. “And, he's back, oh god, he's back, and he's going to kill- he's going to kill us all. If you- if you don't do anything!” 

She grabs fistfulls of her tattered sweater. “We’re scared. All of us, but- but, they have been saying things, the other ghosts.” Her smoky eyes trail over his face and the scars on his skin. “They’ve been talking about you, about this boy that is the son of a god and they’ve been saying things. Saying that you could help and you would and- and. They’ve been saying you can save me, us all. And-” 

“Excuse me, what?” The boy crosses his arms over his chest. “Who's been saying these? Other wizards?” They aren't a foreign concept, of course. Plenty of them pass through the Underworld, mostly delusional and muttering about a man with glowing red eyes and a snake like nose. Delusional mutterings, of course. But this girl doesn't seem crazy and her fear seems so very real. 

She nods stiffly. “I know this isn't your problem. I know you aren't one of us. I know I know I know.” She sighs, eyes dropping to her feet again, and the boy stays silent. “But, people are dying. I died because of him.” 

With a bony finger she points to the scar on her neck. “Slit my throat, you see. Tried to make it seem like suicide. The killing curse doesn't leave a mark. That's suspicious. He needed to cover it up.” She laughs again, bitterly, sounding as though there is a fish bone in her throat and a knife against her tongue. 

“Why me?” 

The question is simple. Plain. Short. And the words are spoken fast and bordering on cold. “You could have chosen anyone. Percy. Annabeth. Jason. Even Leo goddamn Valdez. They’re much better heroes than me, don't you get it?” 

“No,” the ghost says and the tug on her lips looks almost amused. “Don't you get it. You're not like them. You're a little more...let's say, morally grey. You’ve had more experience with the...darker things in life.” She throws her hands into the air. “You’ve dealt with things like this before. You can do it again.” 

The certainty in her voice is startling, and her eyes seem to glow brighter with each word, silvery and demanding. Hoping. In return, the boy nods. “Okay. Sure, I guess.” He breathes deeply, eyes fluttering shut in defeat. “What do I have to do?” 

For a second, the ghost looks as though she wants to laugh, maybe cry, maybe scream, and she throws her smoky arms around his neck, burrowing her head into his shoulder. Immediately, he stiffens, eyes widening with panic, heartbeat quickening. But she doesn't seem to notice and when she finally releases him she steps back and in the golden sunlight streaking through the clouds her eyes shimmer with what is unmistakably tears. The golden lights are like glitter on her skin, painting her in little shards of silver glass that reflect the sunlight.

“Thank you,” she gasps. And then she's talking in such a fast tone that the boy must read her lips to understand what she is saying. “You need to go to The Leaky Cauldron. It's here, in London, just, just concentrate and you should see it. Turn left out of this alley.” 

“Okay, then-.”

“Speak to the bartender, Tom. Ask to send a letter. Just, make up a sad story, then he should let you send it for free. But send it to Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts, but I guess you already know that. Lie. Make up a story. Get enrolled into Hogwarts.” 

Her eyes search his face, suddenly panicked, suddenly wary. Her form flicker a little, spectral mist dimming, the golden light no longer glitter on her skin. “I'm running out of time. Just, just, read some books, learn a bit so that you don't seem to out of place. You’re technically magical, you’ll do fine.”

Then suddenly, she grabs onto his wrist, and her fingers are cold like his own but somehow they don't feel as though they are there at all.“I must go. Remember what you must do, Son of Hades.” 

And with that, with hastily choked out words, with frantic eyes and even more so words, she grabs tighter onto his wrist, as she fades into nothingness, golden glitter no longer dancing in her skin. As though she was never there at all. 

And left stood alone in the alleyway, Nico di Angelo feels more confused than ever. 

 

\---

 

Nico di Angelo walks the streets alone. The darkness falls thick and heavy around him, footsteps silent against the pavements, breath clouding in the cold air. He tilts back his head, pulling the beanie from his hair and stuffing it in his pocket, and letting his eyes roam across the clear skies and constellations of stars. 

He walks the streets alone, slinking into the shadows and melting into the darkness. His dark dark eyes strain, though seeing almost perfectly through the dark, and his eyelids weigh heavy on his face. 

Turn left out of this alley.

He did, turned left from the alley that is littered with dumpsters and polluted with smoke and riddled with rubbish, and then began to tread down the empting streets where the slight rain is illuminated by the orange glow of street-lights. Frustrated, he pushes his palms onto his forehead, breath clouding when he sighs deeply. 

His eyes narrow, and then, under the glow of the streetlights, he sees it. It doesn't look like much, at first glance, and the anxiety and doubt hits him suddenly, like a tsunami with little warning, harsh emotion like the waves crashing onto the cliffs. 

The paint is peeling from the walls and the windows are steamed up and grubby, but he suppresses his grimace and stands behind the door, hand hovering over the worn handle.

But eventually, he pushes open the door and slips through the gap, before shutting it behind himself with a gentle click. He pulls down his black hood. The bartender, Tom, glances up at him. 

“What can I get you?” He asks, and his voice is gruff and low and Nico finds his lips tightening a little. He steps forward to the bar. “Drink? Food?” 

“I was wondering, actually,” he says, and he notices that Tom glances down at the silver ring in his finger, then averts his eyes to meet Nico's own. His dark dark eyes seem to startle him. “If I can send a letter, Sir” 

“Sure -”

Nico interrupts with a small, but noticeable sigh. “I'm sorry, Sir, but I’ve come from America, you see, and I have no money. Is there any chance I can earn a little money, just until September when I go to Hogwarts.” He hangs his head, if only to hide the small smirk on his lips.

He hears Tom grunt noncommittally. “I 'suppose there are a few things you could do for me, until Hogwarts starts.” Nico looks at him through a curtain of raven hair. 

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

Tom chuckles quietly. “No need to call me sir, boy, but I must ask, where are your parents.”

Nico scuffs his feet on the dirty floor. “Oh, erm, they died a while back, so my aunt was homeschooling me. She talked about Hogwarts a lot, you know. And then she died.” The words drip from his lips like a leaky faucet. 

Tom’s eyes burn into his neck, and he hears him shuffle from foot to foot awkwardly. “Tell you what, don’t worry about the letter, I'll get it covered. Go to the top floor, there’s some owls and parchment and quills. Come see me about some work after, yeah?” 

“Oh, thank you!” Nico curls his lips into a smile, fake, but a smile nonetheless. He turns away, and the floorboards creak underneath his weight when he walks away. Like he had done so so many times before. 

-

The owls are afraid. He doesn't blame them. Of course they are. They can smell death, the scent that lingers around him, the one that makes others anxious when they are around him for reasons even they do not know. He smells of death. Looks like it to.

He is tired, so very very tired. Tired of the running and talking and lying and watching everyone walk away from him, and exhausted from so many sleepless night where he is too afraid to close his eyes in fear of what he may see in the dark. 

Funny, isn't it. The son of Hades afraid of the dark. 

And the owls, they are afraid, and when he writes his letter he can feel amber eyes on him, wide and waiting and wary, as if expecting him to attack. Anytime. Anywhere. 

 

He meets their stares with dark dark eyes. 

The letter is short, plain, simple, built on his tragic past and elegant script. After a short struggle, he manages to attach it to the leg of the largest of the owls, the one that seems the least afraid as it ruffles it flecked feathers and meets his gaze with burning eyes.

 

It's eyes are like wildfire. Dangerous. And uncontrollable. Raging flames and smoldering embers. Blackened coals and swirling smoke. It's feathers are similar too, deep red, like the blood in his veins, but somehow more deadly, darker, dangerous. 

“Thank you,” he says to no one in particular, fingers threading through his hair as he descends the steps to the pub. The air is damp, sticking to his skin like his jacket does his arms.  
He passes old doors and creaking floorboards, and he absentmindedly swipes his finger over the dust on the banister. Tom’s waiting for him when he reaches the bar. 

“You done?” He asks, and Nico can imagine his gravelly voice scratching the back of his throat the way it scratches his skin. Bloody. Red. Raw. 

“Yeah.”

“'Been thinking,” Tom says, and Nico bites down on his tongue to stop his remark slipping through his dry chapped lips. Bit dangerous, don't you think. “In exchange for a bit 'a cleaning here and there and a few odd jobs, I'll let you stay in a spare room 'til Hogwarts starts.”

Nico nods, far too enthusiastically, but Tom doesn't notice and his eyes are on Nico’s silver ring again. His finger slides forward a bit, almost daring, almost challenging, Tom to take it. There is a glint in his eyes, bright, artificial, like lights in a hospital when the outside world is dark. Daring. Challenging. 

“That's great, thank you sir.” 

And the moment is gone. Tom’s eyes are back to his face and his own are dark and endless. 

-

He is a stranger here, roaming the streets behind the pub alone, lit only by the glowing flames as darkness descends on the streets. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes are straight ahead. 

A woman walks, almost impossibly light hair glinting in the light, with a boy with the same platinum hair, shoulders back and their chins held up and their steps long and purposeful. Even with the distance, he can hear them speaking, their posh, accented voices ringing through his ears. 

“-and then I said, 'Suzanna, darling, who knows what that son of yours has been up to. Deviant thing, isn't he?” Then she laughs, and her laugh is cold and metallic and dripping through perfectly glossed lips like poison from a snake's fang.

“Very exciting, mother,” the boy says, and his words spill through privileges and money, a big house, golden chains, silver plates. Like poison dripping from a snake’s fang. 

Nico's steps speed up, and soon he is only metres behind the woman and her son, and what's that, almost spilling from her snakeskin handbag? Gold. Silver. Bronze. Gleaming in the fire light. So close; if he could just step a little bit closer, hand outstretched, fingers nimble and light, he can snag it. She won't notice, of course. The rings on her fingers probably hold more worth than himself.  
What's a little less gold when it's piled up at home, an arms length away, blurring the line between rich and filthy rich. 

He takes his chance, and his slender fingers curl around the bag of money, pulling gently, lifting gently, breathing gently. And then, he's running, the bag cold against his fingertips, footsteps echoing through the streets. 

 

-

 

When he steps into the Leaky Cauldron again, sweat beading on his neck, but his face as placid as ever, Tom’s waiting, a letter held between his thick fingers. He takes a seat by the bar, an elegant brow raised. 

“This is for you, I think,” Tom says. 

Nico plucks the letter from his fingers and his fingertips brush over the wax seal on the back. Red. Scarlet. Crafted in elegance. 

“What makes you say that?” He mutters under his breath, staring down at his name written in perfect, cursive golden letters on the front, a small smile dancing on his lips. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says, and his finger breaks the scarlet wax seal.

 

 

 

END OF CHAPTER ONE


	2. bruised knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood and silver, such a pretty colour scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I first posted this on Wattpad,, but?? Idk. Please comment and stuff bc I need criticism oops

CHAPTER TWO; BRUISED KNUCKLES

 

 

He wears his dark aesthetic like a second skin, a leather jacket and ripped jeans, braces hanging from his hips, Doc Martens tapping against the wooden floor. There is a fire burning in his eyes, dark dark sparks and suffocating smoke, the flames far from the smouldering embers in the antique fireplace. And there is something akin to challenge running through his veins and curiosity thriving in his blood.

His slender fingers tap against the table, bruised knuckles contrasting to his pale skin, and fingernails digging into the wood. In his other hand, a steaming mug of black coffee almost burns his hand, irritating his skin, but pleasantly. He doesn't want to let go. 

“So,” he says, if only to unsettle the heavy silence between him and the strange, aged man sat opposite him, donning unusual midnight coloured robes and a matching hat. 

It was one of the first things he noticed, when he stepped past the strange brick wall and into the cobblestoned streets. Time is a strange thing, and it almost felt as though he had stepped back into a previous British Era, of flickering candles and houses built from stone and wood and long, flowing robes on those of all ages. Time is a strange thing, he realises, but so is the man with the midnight blue hat, so he guesses that it's okay. 

The conversation and light outside is dwindling, the shadows and the silence growing, stagnant between the boy with the dark dark eyes and the wizard with the silver beard. The coffee and words left to be said are little and Nico begins to feel increasingly awkward, though the man opposite doesn't seem to notice. 

His startling blue eyes are on Nico’s face, as if searching for lies hidden within his features. Uncomfortable, a shiver runs up his spine and as absurd as it sounds it's almost feels as though the wizard is probing at his mind and thoughts and memories, so he forces himself to think of the coffee burning his throat, anything, to suppress the cold dancing on his skin. 

 

“So,” the man agrees, and his voice is low and Nico can imagine it echoing eerily in an empty room. “I sympathies with your current situation, and while it is rather sudden, I think enrolling you into Hogwarts would be fulfilling and the safest option, unless you would rather attend Ilvermorny in America, of course.”

Nico stares at the steam rising from his scalding mug. “My aunt used to say Hogwarts is the best school, Mr Dumbledore, and that you’re the greatest wizard,” he says, and glances up to see Dumbledore’s electric eyes on him.

“I’m sorry to hear about your loss, Mr. di Angelo. Would she be familiar?” He says the words as if they mean something, as if they aren't an elaborate plan to cause Nico to lose his footing and slip from his lies. 

“We lived in America, Mr, but her name was Valerie di Angelo.” Nico’s voice drops quieter, deadlier, honeyed words dripping from a silver tongue “Do you recognize it.” He meets Dumbledore’s gaze, and for a second, (maybe it's nothing, maybe it’s something), the glint in his blue blue eyes flickers; some part of his composure folds in on itself. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it’s something. 

“I'm afraid I don't,” Dumbledore replies, the glint in his renewed, composure as strong and steely as ever. But there is something different in his expression, akin to challenge, when Nico leans forward a little, arms crossed over the table. Something darker. Dangerous. Something Nico wants to see again. 

“Great,” he says as he leans back in his chair, and the tension is gone, replaced by the sickly sweet sense of a mutual unbalance, mistrust, challenge, maybe. “You are far too kind, Mr. Dumbledore.”

Dumbledore chuckles, maybe with humour, maybe without, but his piercing eyes stay on Nico’s as he produces a letter from a pocket in his midnight blue robes, sealed by a scarlet wax seal, cursive, golden writing on the front. 

“Inside,” he says in that low echoing voice, sliding the envelope across the table, “Is a list of supplies you will need, and you mentioned you have no money.” He then reaches into his pocket once more and slides a bag eerily similar to the one Nico stole from the platinum-haired women across the table. “This should cover all the supplies you need, and a little extra for your own use.” There is a different glint in his blue blue eyes, gentler, more sympathetic than he has seen them before. 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Dumbledore. Thank you for everything you are doing for me; it means a lot, thank you,” he says, dragging his thumb under the scarlet seal with a satisfactory tear. “My aunt would be ever so thankful.” 

Dumbledore smiles, gentle, sympathetic. “It's hard to lose someone you love, Mr. di Angelo.” He glances at his watch. “But I mustn't be keeping you. It's getting rather late, isn't it?” 

He stands and exits the café in a swirl of midnight blue. 

-

“Nico, boy, you’ve done well.” Tom's scratchy voice rings through his ears, and he looks up from where he was rather aggressively cleaning a table. “This place look better already!” 

Tom smiles a toothless grin and pushes a few golden galleons towards Nico, which he takes with a small smile and slips into his pocket, fingers brushing over the money bag he stole and the one he was given. “Happy to help,” he replies. “And thank you, by the way, for letting me stay here.”

He barely hears Tom’s reply from the thudding pain in his head, and his eyelids weigh heavily against his cheekbones and ache irritatingly. “Night, Tom,” he mumbles, hardly audible, as he begins to climb the stairs to the room he’s been granted. 

It’s fairly big, with a double bed in the centre, a large wardrobe to the left and a desk to the right. Crimson curtains swing in front of the window, a calming motion, like the rocking of a boat on gentle seas. The pads on his fingertips rub along the dusty surfaces, and his dark dark trail over the sheets that look as though they haven't been touched in years. But he doesn't complain, and he falls asleep faster than he has in years.

 

\--

 

He sleep is plagued with nightmares, which is expected but at same time not expected at all. He sees Bianca, her silver parka reflecting the ice in her dark dark eyes, face as youthful and elegant as ever, basked in moonlight, but painted in rage. Her features are twisted into a scowl that makes his eyes burn a little with tears. Sickly blood runs from a slash in her throat that is almost as twisted as the grin on her lips. “Blood and silver, such a pretty colour scheme,” she says, and her words drip like a leaky faucet and burn at skin when she says them, all sharp edges and cutting sounds. 

There is blood on his lips, thick and metallic, and his fingers shake and he can feel Bianca’s accusing eyes on his skin, burning, biting, tearing at his flesh. “You are nothing,” she spits like venom and again her words are all cutting edges and sharp sounds, probing at his pain and making his lips bleed further. Then she snarls, “You mean nothing,” but he doesn't hear her because all he can hear is the growl on her lips and her nails raking down his skin. Fingers shaking and eyes on his skin.

He wants to scream. He wants to scream until his throat is bloody and raw, and maybe then when he can't hear or see because fuck the pain is too much to handle, he will have a moment of peace, in his own agony, drowning in it, like Bianca is drowning in silver and blood. But he can't, because his lips are sewn shut and his mouth is gargling with blood. 

And the longer he looks at Bianca (because he doesn't want to close his eyes, the dark is scary too) the more blood he sees on the slit through her throat and the more hate that spikes in her eyes. At some point, she talks again, but Nico doesn't hear her scathing words because he presses his shaking hands to his ears because even if he is forced to see, like hell will he be forced to listen, too. 

Then, suddenly, there's light, and it's not the warm, comforting light that spills through your window on a summers morning, no it's far too bright and artificial and it burns his dark dark eyes as though it is shredding through his corneas, but he doesn't want to close his eyes (because the dark is scary too).

There is an imbalance between light and dark, between blinding sun and sickly blood, both as unpleasant as each other, and fighting with each other as Nico's eyes glaze over a little and he suddenly feels as though the ground is far far away. As though it is not there at all.

As though he is not there at all.

 

-

His heart aches. He knows the feeling. He felt the same when Percy fucking Jackson told him his sister, the last family he knew and loved, was dead, crushed from sacrificing herself for Percy fucking Jackson. Hate mingled with his heart ache, then. 

And then again, when Jason fucking Grace is stood before him and telling him that he's the one pushing people away, like he understands, because like hell does a perfect, golden son of Jupiter understand anything about him. He didn't, and his own heart didn't understand himself either. 

Then it's Will fucking Solace, telling him that he's not trying enough, that it's his fault, that his ribs stick out too much and there are scars on his wrists, and that it's because of himself that he's tired all the fucking time and no amount of sleep will change that. He's not tired from exhaustion, he's tired of his aching heart, instead. 

It's been a year, maybe two (but time is a strange thing so he can't really tell), and he’d almost about forgotten about the ache in heart that burns like a thousand suns are in his chest, that throbs, a constant pounding in his pulse and a stabbing in his heart. His heart aches, and when it does, his whole body aches, too. 

-

He doesn't remember dragging himself out of bed, but he kinda remembers slipping on his boots and his half-assed attempt at fixing his hair. He doesn't remember shoving his money in his leather pocket but he kinda remembers the feeling of his knife against his fingertips. 

“You okay,” says Tom, when his footsteps creak on the old floor, (even though he doesn't remember getting there, but he kinda remembers the dust on the banister) “You look tired,” he continues, and Nico bites back a scathing remark and instead says “didn't sleep much,” in a voice that sounds too tired to be argued with. Tom doesn't say much else, but Nico hears his mumble something about a potion to look out for if he gets the chance. He doesn't ask. Tom doesn't answer.

-

After he follows a ginger-haired man through the strange brick wall, he finds himself on the streets of Diagon Alley, leather boots contrasting to the pale stone underfoot. He glances down at the list held in his nimble fingers. 

Wand. Ollivanders.

The letters are a little jumbled and blurred, but he manages to decipher what they say after a minute of frowning and scowling, hidden under an empty stall with an aging, empty table. Dark dark eyes flick upwards, and leather soles slap against the stone, fingers curling around the paper. 

The wizards look at him a little strangely, which he finds slightly amusing because they are the ones with the pointed hats and flowing robes, and in any normal street all eyes would be on them, but here, feeling as though he has stepped back in time, he feels eyes on his skin and his fingers shake a little, and he bites his lips a little so hard so they become a little bloody. 

But he keeps his dark dark eyes forward, and ignores the burning on his skin. 

-

Eventually, he finds the shop with faded golden writing that he can vaguely make out as Ollivander's. It's dark and dingy and looks like not much at all, but he steps through the threshold anyway, and tries to ignore the suffocating feeling of claustrophobia creating up his neck. 

His eyes trail over the old, weathered boxes piled like a labyrinth and a single desk stands, shadowed by the masses of boxes looming over it, with chipped wood and splintered edges. The owner is nowhere to be seen. Nico stands with a placid expression as he fights the unease on his skin. 

He taps his feet, swiping the dust from one of the nearby boxes and tilting the lid up a little, to see the polished wood of an intricately carved wand resting on white cushion. The silence is almost suffocating, and he shifts from foot to foot, debating whether or not to leave and maybe return later. 

He hand is hovering above the door handle when a voice startles him. 

“Oh, goodness, a customer,” it says, and Nico spins around and tries to compose his features. “Sorry, didn't hear you come in.” 

He's old, Nico notices first, with grey, wispy hair and wrinkles etched into his skin. His black robes hand a little too loosely over his frame and it reminds him hauntingly of himself. Not so much now, he supposes, so he guesses that it's alright. 

But, definitely, when he was younger, when his cheeks were sunken and his eyes as empty as the space where his heart should’ve been and there were slits on his thighs and smoke in his lungs from smoking a little too much. Maybe then. Maybe now. 

Quickly, he tries to mask his surprise by slipping a small smile onto his lips and inclining his chin a little. “Its okay,” he says, as the strange man distracts himself by shuffling the stacked boxes around. His eyes glint a little in the candle light. “I’m here for a wand…obviously.” 

 

The man chuckles, and it's a strange sound, as though it is warm and comforting but at the same time making the room drop in degrees, loosening his throat from anxiety but also tying a noose around his skin.

“I can't seem to remember selling you your first.” His curious eyes study Nico’s face maybe a little too long. Maybe not. “But then again, my memory isn’t as good as it used to be.” His fingers trace along a dusty box hidden away under his desk. 

“Try this,” he says in that warming, but chilling tone, and he slides the lid from the box and hands the wand to Nico. It's been carved into little swirls that vaguely reminds Nico if the ocean. 

It's cold underneath his touch. 

“Go on then, give it a wave.” Ollivander’s eyes are watching him intently, narrowed just slightly, as if trying to depict his future from his miniscule movements. Maybe trying too hard. Maybe not. 

He feels foolish, when he lifts the wand and gives it a little flick from his wrist. Nothing happens, and Ollivander lunges forward and almost rips it from his hand, muttering under his breath. Nico scuffs his feet a little awkwardly. 

“Try this,” Ollivander says, and there’s a trace of something that sounds like excitement dripping from his words. Nico tries again. Nothing happens. 

 

The discarded boxes and his anxiety grows. 

“I don't know, sir,” he says, and he doesn't really remember Ollivander handing him another wand but he kinda remembers it getting ripped from his hands. “Maybe I should try somewhere else or something.” 

At his words, Ollivander stares at him incredulously. “No no no, you’re just a curious wizard, and you’re wand will be too.” Nico doesn't ask. Ollivander doesn't answer.

-

Eventually, they find a wand, after half-an-hour or an hour (but he can't really tell, because time is a strange thing, he realises). It's made from a dark wood, and the intricate patterns remind him of curling feathers and smoke, of burning coals and piercing eyes on his skin. Like the rest, it is cold under his touch, but a different cold. Colder, almost, but with a dark power seeping into his body like blood stains his skin. 

His lips are a little bloody, from biting them a little too hard.

Ollivander's eyes are different, too, excitement glittering in his irises, anticipation glowing in his pupils, and they are fixed on Nico, unblinking. Unseeing, maybe. Maybe not. 

His own dark dark eyes stay on his fingers (that shake a little, but won't admit) as he waves the wand and feels more of that same power in his blood and in his skin, creeping up his back and treading over his thoughts. His kinda remembers Ollivander humming in response, but doesn't remember much else, of course. 

“Excellent!” He says, a little too loudly and Nico's ears ring slightly. “Excellent. Very good, very good!” Nico's arm rests by his side. 

Ollivander hums as he collects the box, which is like the rest, brown and weathered, but maybe just a little more faded, a little more aged. Nico slides eight galleons across the desk as Ollivander cushions the wand inside of the box, and the little bell above the door rings in his ears when he pushes open the door and steps into the last-era streets. 

The cold bites at his skin, and his wand is left unknown, and he, unknowing. 

 

END OF CHAPTER TWO


	3. shaking fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the world is a kind of weird buzz around him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing style completely changes halfway through this because it was originally two chapters but I merged them together, so sorry for that.

CHAPTER THREE; SHAKING FINGERS

The weight of the the night rests on the shoulders of the few lanterns that dimly illuminate the narrow alleyway. They flicker a little, as though they are a tangible life force reflecting from the flames trapped within the glass, shedding light on the weathered, mossy stones and glinting eyes that follow each of his steps. 

Nico doesn't really remember stepping into the darker streets, but by now the exhaustion is crashing in waves so he decides to blame it on that. He rubs his eyes, squinting and trying to keep the dizziness from his head and the dark spots from his eyes. 

There are eyes on his skin as he passes a lady with shimmering hair and flawless, dark skin, captivating eyes flitting to meet his; batted eyelashes; puckered lips. She says something, and he can vaguely remember the sweetness of her voice, as though it has been spoken with sugar on her tongue and honey on her lips. He takes no notice, and doesn't stay to see the surprise on her bewitching features. 

Murmurs trap under his footsteps. The alleyways and his thoughts stray. Distantly, he wonders what camp is like now, after the fires have died and the smoke has curled into the sky and out of sight. He wonders if Hazel misses him, or wonders about him. Probably. Probably not. He wonders if she thinks about him at all.

There is a clatter of glass that cuts through his thoughts, partly, but not all the way, so he doesn't really remember when he crouches down to pick up a little glass bottle that has rolled next to his feet. The rips is his jeans widen. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, when he realises he’s been trying to read the little writing on the bottle for far too long and the world around him has become kinda like a buzz. A blur; but not a blur; as though it is not there at all. Quickly he stands and glances up. 

“S’okay,” a woman replies, and the little creases from smiling a little too much deepen in the dim light. “Here, you look tired, try this.” Her aged palm opens and Nico looks at it for a moment, suddenly transfixed on the little vile of silver liquid against her skin. “It’ll help you sleep.’ 

Her grey eyes meet Nico’s and sparkle like the silver liquid in the vile. Taking a deep breath, he runs a hand through his hair and scoffs. “Will it?” He says, because he’s pretty fucking done with people trying to trick him. “Or will it kill me when I sleep. Death and sleep isn't the same thing, you know.” 

For a moment, a fleeting moment which is hardly there (but he counts anyway), something that's looks strangely like pity flashes on her face before she looks away and closes her fist, the little vile enclosed with her thick fingers. “Such little trust.” She tilts her head and her long, black hair spills down her side like a onyx waterfall of sin and darkness. Her pale skin glitters a little in the moonlight, like shards of silver glass on her face, or glitter maybe, reflecting the silver in her deep eyes. Or maybe it is just light on her skin, and these similies mean nothing at all. 

Anyway, his fingers shake a little as the women turns with the vials in her fists and a shiny, leather bag over her shoulders. He stands there for a moment, feeling the fatigue swimming in his eyes and forming dark bruises around them, and when he says “wait,” he barely notices he has spoken until the woman turns around with a small smile playing on her lips. 

“I have this,” he mutters, fingers shaking a little when he dangles a silver necklace he found in the rich woman with the platinum hair’s purse. “Just, swear that it is legit,” he adds a second later, and then again he adds, “on the river Styx.” 

For a dragging second the woman looks as though she will refuse and anxiety spikes in Nico’s heart, as a frown creases her dark brows. “I swear-” she says, grey eyes caught on the silver necklace, the glinting metal almost reflecting in her eyes, “-that this is not a trick, nor will it cause you harm, and the intention is to only help you sleep-” because god's knows you need it, she doesn't say, but Nico can almost hear it on her tongue, “-and I swear it will cause you no pain nor harm. But don't drink the whole vile at one, then it will.” 

“On the river Styx?” 

“I swear it on the river Styx,” she says, a little confused, but she doesn't comment and Nico drapes the necklace over her hand and she uncurls her fist again. He doesn't really remember the thunder rumbling overhead. Immediately, the silver liquid seems to trap the moonlight into the glass, and it is icy cold against his skin when the woman drops it into his palm. “Pleasure doing business with you,” says says, almost a whisper. 

Nico nods and watches her disappear into the darkness, cold vial held in his clenched fist. Fingers shaking a little. 

 

-

 

He escapes from the alleyways eventually, and the warm glow of the lanterns cast long shadows from his figure. Cold breath clouds in the air. The shop’s are dark and empty, save for the familiar light spilling from the newly-grime-free (courtesy of himself) windows, and a spotted cat scuttles from his sight. 

His bag aches his shoulder a little, from all the new school supplies he bought with the money Dumbledore gave him, with the other, Slightly Less Legally Obtained money shoved in his jacket pocket (and the little that Tom’s given him that he almost wants to return because he feels just a little bad that he's lying to him, which is stupid). The spines of the books press uncomfortably against his own.

When he pushes open the bar door and slips inside, Tom frowns at him a little, but before he can comment he almost runs to his room and slides off his boots and jeans and jacket. The silver liquid is almost clear in the artificial light but still as chilling as it was back in the alleyways. 

He pauses, not for long, but long enough for him to question if he’s really going to drink a strange liquid he most likely illegally bought from a shady woman in a shadier street- both literally and figuratively- no matter how intoxicating it may look. 

Yes. He will. And does; he lets a little drip onto his tongue, and it's as cold against his tongue as it was against his palm, and like ice against his throat but fire against his lips, leaving behind a small trace of silver that's only visible in the bright, artificial lights. 

The room settles into darkness and for once, Nico di Angelo doesn't dream through the night.

-

 

It feels strange when we wakes up by the golden light spilling through his curtains. Strange; because he hasn't slept like this in what feels like years (but time is a strange thing, so he can't really tell), and as he showers and slips on his boots it kinda feels as though he isn't really there at all, as though there is nothing keeping him tied down onto earth and the whole world is becoming a kind of buzz. Blur; but not a blur; as though he is not there at all. 

 

But somehow, his senses feel almost painfully acute, and when he speaks to Tom, his deep, scratchy voice rings in his ears a little to loud and he hurries on with a cloth and brush to clean the tables. Around him, the world is becoming a kind of buzz. Blur; but not a blur; as though it is not there at all. 

He swipes the damp cloth over the tables, noticing but at the same time not really noticing the buzz of chatter behind him, a harmony of posh tones to the beat of their footsteps against the creaky floorboards.  
“Excuse me,” says a voice that he barely notices, because the world is sort of a weird buzz around him that he can't really focus on, but he turns around and tries not to raise his brows at the platinum haired boy whose nose is curled up just a little, subtle, but not really. 

Nico meets his steely eyes. “Can I help you,” he says, and Nico notices a flicker of the boys composure collapsing, but only for a split-second, not really anything; maybe he imagined it; maybe he didn't. 

“Are you almost done with this? I would rather not stay in this-” He gestures to the pub with an airy hand, “-place any longer than I must. I, unlike you, obviously, have a reputation to keep.” 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Nico shoots back, and averts his eyes to the empty seat. “But please, don't let my lower-class self deter you from your awfully important sitting, your highness.” He grabs the cloth and gives the table one last wipe before bowing a little, the blond’s eyes burning into his neck. 

The boy huffs a little and sits on the edge of the seat. “I should hope so,” he says, then, after a second of hesitation. “My name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” 

And in a moment of weakness, the world a weird buzz around him that is like a blur but at the same time not really at all, he says, “Nico di Angelo, nice to meet you,” and his fingers shake a little and the world is still a weird buzz around him. 

 

\--

 

Draco Malfoy is made from glass. Cold like his eyes and brittle like his mind. Priceless. An artifact made to be preserved in time, displayed only to awed eyes and curious stares as a beacon of wealth and power. 

But glass shatters. It breaks. It cracks it chips it falls apart and Nico di Angelo is no stranger to the flurry of barely contained emotions twisting his features, which he tries to suppress quickly afterwards but maybe just not quick enough. 

Nico di Angelo has already seen what is behind that mask of glass and behind that mask of glass is a face of shattered windows and cracked mirrors, defaced by little scratches of loneliness and cruel splinters of longing. 

Because Draco Malfoy is made of glass and glass shatters it breaks it chips it cracks. 

-

“Nico di Angelo, nice to meet you.” Nico says, and he doesn't bother to extend a hand because he knows Draco Malfoy won't take it. Won't touch a stranger's skin when they have ripped jeans and chapped lips from smoking a little too many cigarettes when they were younger. Won't extend a hand of glass in fear that the meeting hand is made from stone and will crush his fingers of glass with fingers of stone and a wicked skull ring on their index finger of their right hand. 

Instead, Nico di Angelo steps away and let's Draco swing his legs over a chair and let a little snarl of authority settle on his lips. “My mother is meeting me here in- let's says- five minutes, so please, hurry and get us two glasses of red wine.” 

“Sure.” 

As he walks to the counter his footsteps echo at the same rhythm of the blood in his ears, pulsing pulsing pulsing. Tom’s far too busy talking animatedly to a women with a badge glinting on her chest to notice Nico as he slips past him to the back stores to find the wine. No one but Tom is really supposed to be back here and anyone sees him they will think his is up to no good, he knows this.

But he slips into the back stores. And he is up to no good.

He doesn't hurry. He pours the drinks with precision and he can feel Draco's glass eyes on his skin when he slides the bottle back under the countertop. The table wobbles a little when he sets the two glasses of wine on it, but Draco doesn't comment, and neither does he. 

“What house are you in?” Draco says after a long silence, and he stumbles over his words just a little bit but covers it up quickly with a small cough. 

At first, Nico doesn't understand what he's asking and let's his eyes focus a little more on Draco's glass eyes, but after a moment of hesitation realises he's referring to the Hogwarts houses (after reading through a few books about the wizarding world for the last couple of nights) and shakes his head. 

“I don't go to Hogwarts,” he says, then adds, “yet,” after a pause to study Draco's face. Draco in turn arches a brow. 

For a second, a passing moment, Nico watches the flurry of curiosity on his glass features, as if debating on whether or not to ask what he wants to ask and let his mask of glass slip down just a little bit more. Then the moment is gone and instead he asks, “then what house do you think you will be in?” as if to quickly dismiss the questions bubbling on his tongue. 

“Slytherin, I think, from what I've read.” 

Draco smiles, pale lips curving upwards and maybe Nico's imagining it but he looks a little less expensive and more comfortable like the worn Doc Martens on his restless feet. “The best house,” Draco injects, and the silver in his hair glints in the sunlight and the green on his scarf blends with his dark robes. Fitting. “You’ll make your real friends there.” 

Nico nods, and opens his mouth to reply but Draco hastily cuts him off with a declaration of, “mother,” and the woman with the platinum hair saunters through the door, the same snakeskin handbag that he pickpocketed from resting on the inside of her elbow. She greets Draco with a tight smile. 

“Draco dear, who is this?” She asks, after taking a seat and changing her icy features into something vaguely sweet and regarding. 

Nico stares back with his dark dark eyes on her silver irises. “Nico di Angelo, ma’am,” he says, and again he doesn't extend a hand because she is far too alike her glass son to shake the hand of a stranger with chapped lips from smoking a little too many cigarettes when he was younger and ripped jeans. And instead, again, he settles with a placid expression of eyes of fake interest. 

Predictably, she ignores him, and turns back to her son with that same icy expression that can't stray from her face for too long. “Draco, we must be going. We are meeting your father soon before Hogwarts, tomorrow.”

Their chairs scrape across the floor when the stand, and the clicking of the woman's heels vibrate through his feet. 

Neither of them have touched the red wine and Nico can't imagine such colour tainting their perfect skin. 

-

 

It's August the 31st, Nico realises with a sudden jolt that hits him like a truck. Tomorrow, he will board of a train of wizards and infiltrate their school, hidden by lies and a tragic backstory, daggers wrapped in mist and basked in shadows, leather jacket discarded and jeans hidden by flowing robes as if he is an medieval era movie. 

Tomorrow, the real challenge will begin and hopefully after all he has read and all he has practiced with that unknown wand he keeps in his jacket pocket, he can fool the man at the head of the game and the leader of this supposed rebellion rippling through Britain. Dumbledore. 

But for now, he is tangled in sheets and pillows with an almost empty canister resting in his palm. The silver liquid reflects in the broken shards of moonlight spilling through his curtains, and his fingers and thoughts mull over the shimmering liquid. 

 

His dreams are as empty as the canister on his bedside table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this chapter is shorter than the others... 
> 
> thanks for reading!!


	4. a distant memory of nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's eyes on his skin and a distant memory of nostalgia in his head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i've been experimenting with some different writing styles, as you can probably tell, so i apologise for the inconsistency.
> 
> also, i would also like to say that i have been in a kinda shitty place recently so the quality probably isn't very good, so again, i apologise for that.

CHAPTER FOUR: A DISTANT MEMORY OF NOSTALGIA

 

There is a ringing, a stinging sense of nostalgia as Nico’s gaze flitters over the weeping parents and ecstatic children, drowning out the voices and footsteps into a sense of just, ringing. As though no other sounds exists except the constant state of just, ringing. 

His dark bangs fall over his eyes and deepen the shadows cast by his cheekbones, fluttering a little in the wind as it whips across his skin. A boy, stood a few feet from him, raises his eyebrows at Nico’s trunk and backpack, and his auburn hair reminds Nico of the pretty boy he used to know in Italy, before they put a star on his arm and he boarded a train one day and disappeared into the dusty tracks. Melancholy prickles at his skin. 

He tears his eyes from the pretty boy and he does the same, looking away to where his pretty friends stand in pretty clothes with pretty faces. Nico brushes past him, and there is a ringing and a cutting sense of nostalgia when his gaze flickers to the brick wall his dark eyes bore into. His fingers shake a little bit. 

(But that's not important).

Somewhere amongst the ringing a clock chimes ten, and the ringing is harmonized with a thudding and Nico glances around at the footsteps against the pavements. A dog bounds up to him, fur dark and shaggy, eyes darker and deep and inquisitive, large paws padding at the round. It's pink tongue lolls to one side. 

“Heya,” Nico says, almost as a whisper, because he doesn’t want to scare the poor dog when it hasn't shrunk away from him like most animals do. He runs his pale, slender fingers through the dog's fur and around its ear, and it barks appreciatively and wiggles closer still. It's dark eyes flit to meet his. 

Another voice then joins the ringing, and says, “Snuffles,” with a little laugh and a boy with hair as dark and messy as his own and startling, emerald eyes focuses into view. Nico unthreads his fingers from the dogs fur and blinks a few times as Harry Potter runs towards him, followed closely by a red-headed boy that reminds Nico of the man who used to own the comic book store in Venice, and a girl with bushy hair and wide eyes. 

With its tail wagging feverishly, the dog rolls onto its back and Nico bends down to thread his fingers through its fur again, and the ringing and voices and footsteps is joined by panting and laughing. “I like your dog,” he says, as the trio approach him with their eyes on his leather and silver ring. 

After a little silence that Nico tries to ignore, Harry Potter comments, “his name's Snuffles,” and Snuffles jumps towards him with a thud like a beat to the rhythm of the ringing. “I think he likes you too,” he adds a second later, maybe to dismiss the stagnant silence settling between them. 

“You’re wizards, aren't you?” Nico asks, even though there is still a ringing and he has to concentrate to hear the reply of “yes, and you are too, I’m guessing,” from the brown-eyed girl with the curly hair. 

He scuffs his feet, fighting the nausea in his throat that has settled there since he awoke and bid Tom farewell, the ringing pressing onto his shoulder blades and making him itch to run run run away. “Yeah, I’m exchanging from America, actually, but I don't- erm- really know how to get to the platform.” 

The dog is still on its back, but it's still and quiet and something about them dark eyes on his skin seems- off, strange, and the more he concentrates past the ringing the more he feels the dog's life flicker and change, as though it is there, but ever changing, ever present, strange- off. But he doesn't try to hear past the ringing and let's a shy smile slip onto his elegant lips. He vaguely hears the girl say something about not knowing that Hogwarts accepts exchanges.

“You’re Harry Potter, aren't you?” He asks, a little too breathy if he is to be honest, but he's a good actor, and his shock seems so very real to the trio. They look at him a little awkwardly, as if debating what to say in an unspoken argument between them. He rushes on. “Sorry,” he says, “it's just-” He shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.”

“You don't think I'm a liar?”

“Everyone's a liar.”

There is a ringing, a stinging sense of nostalgia as Nico’s gaze flitters over Harry’s piercing eyes which look at him which a swirling mixture of confusion and wariness in those irises, drowning out the voices and footsteps into a sense of just, ringing. His brows crease a little, and he glances behind at his trunk and back, tongue running over his teeth for a second.

“I've been bullshitting my way through everything so far,” he says, and the ginger snorts and Harry Potter’s eyes widen a little and the girl’s brows pull together. “But now I have no idea what's the fuck is going on.” (big mood).

The ginger snorts again and then outstretches a pale, freckled hand. “Ron Weasley,” he announces and Nico shakes his hand and tries to ignore the tension in his own arms and the cold feeling on his skin like his is being stabbed by poisoned needles and the almost overwhelming desire to run run run away from social interaction and lose himself in this ringing ringing ringing. But he shakes Ron's hand, and fights the nausea stuck in his throat like a jagged fish bone. 

“Nico di Angelo,” Nico replies, and maybe he pulls his hand away a little too quick but no one seems to notice and he tilts his head to one side just a little. “Nice to meet you.” 

Harry Potter’s eyes stay on his skin. The girl introduces herself with a chaste nod and Ron Weasley points to the wall with a grin playing on his lips and explains what to do.

“After you,” Nico says, when Ron’s grin becomes a little unsettling and Snuffles maybe barks a little too much like a laugh. Maybe not. There are knives itching his skin, as if to place a feeling to the ringing that reverberates through his body, and as he runs through the barrier, there is a ringing in his ears and eyes on his skin.

 

\--  
\--  
\--

(September 6th, two years ago. Camp Half-blood).

A boy with dark bruises around his sad sad eyes watches flames lick at his fingertips with a distant memory of nostalgia ghosting in his head. He watches the fire dance in people's eyes for a fleeting second that he doesn't really notice has passed, and then his fingers shake a little when those same eyes turn to burn at his skin, and then he resists the urge to melt into the shadows and maybe light a cigarette and let the smoke curl around his lips. 

Their lips move, and he feels his own move too, but he can't really hear what they’re saying behind the buzz of white noise in his ears and he sure as hell can't remember what he's said because his mind is far too far away. Something stabs at his chest a little, like a needle dripping in poison is piercing his heart, and his eyes flicker to the artificial lights of the infirmary that have burned into his mind by now after a little too long of staring at the white ceilings. His fingers curl into fists. His fingernails dig into his skin. 

(He vaguely wonders when he became hyper-aware of the pain in his heart but decides to try and not think of anything at all when he feels his heartbeat quickening and his fingers shake a little more). 

At some point, he must have bitten his lips just a little too hard because he can taste blood in his mouth and his bottom lip stings a little when his stained tongue runs over it. And then there's that pain in his heart again, so he bites his lip a little more to distract himself. 

“You okay,” someone asks and he feels the heat of their hand hover over his cold cold wrist, and he considers lying for a second but decides against it because at this point he doesn't really think he has the energy to smile. 

So instead of, 'yes, I’m good,” he says, “no, but I will be,” and let's the someone’s words melt into the buzz of white noise and the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. 

And there's a stabbing in his heart, and Nico di Angelo wonders if they know they have died, too. 

 

-

(September 1st, now. Platform 9 ¾).

 

Time is altered here, he thinks, with his calculating gaze on the scarlet train stretching onto the dusty tracks. Time is frozen, he thinks, and even though the trio has disappeared into the throng of people Nico can still almost feel their impending presence on his bones. 

A girl is frozen with one hand on her mouth and her eyes glittering with tears, staining her skin as they trail down her cheeks in rivers of woe. Another girl’s lips are plastered into a smile that makes her teeth glint in the streaking sunlight, and an owl is frozen, mid flight, above her head, wings outstretched as it strains against the collar around it’s slender neck. 

A beautiful scene. Serene, even. Caught between sadness and happiness in a spectrum of emotions that are polar opposites but seem so close together in this frozen frame. 

Then time speeds up again, and the girl of sorrow dips her head away from sight and rubs her eyes, and the girl of joy turns back to her happy friends in their happy conversation in their happy world. 

Sorrow. Joy. Polar opposites. But somehow so hauntingly same. So haunting sane. 

-

 

The compartment he finds is empty, which he acknowledges with a sigh of relief and a ghost of a smile brushing his lips. When he sits, he presses the side of his forehead against the cool glass and let's his vision blur a little as he concentrates on nothing but also on everything there is. Even against the coldness of the window his breath is far too cold to steam it. 

He doesn't really notice the footsteps outside his compartment because his mind is a little too far away and his sense of time feels a little off here, almost similar to when he first stepped into that magic fucking hotel that trapped him for far far too long. 

Time feels altered here, he thinks, when a voice jolts his mind from his smoky sense of just, nothing, and he tilts his head further so that his bangs fall over his eyes. “He’s the exchange,” the voice says, and time seems smoky and hazy and then words of “cool,” follow and then fall into the indescribable and confusing state of simply time itself. 

He tilts his head from the window, as another voice joins and comments, “he looks sad,” and then the first voice replies with, “same,” and Nico understands maybe a little too much and bites down on his lip maybe a little too hard. 

-

Time seems altered here, he thinks, when he somehow drifts into a fitful sleep of fractured memories that he can't really process (which he’s grateful for; memories are a tricky thing). His fingers thread together, and his boots scuff against the floor when he feels that familiar itching in his legs. 

 

He opens his eyes eventually, and, startling him a little (though he won't admit that), another boy sits across from him with his forehead pressed onto the window like Nico's was just moments before. The boy must have spotted Nico in his distorted reflection in the window, because he lifts his head and greets Nico with a tentative smile he returns just a little bit. 

(He prefers his reflection when it's distorted through the glass, almost rid of the dark bruising around his eyes that somehow never seems to fully go away, and that little scar on his cut jawline fades a little more into his skin). 

“Hey,” the boy says- breathes- and his voice is all sorts of sleepiness and soft breath and Nico feels oddly out of place with all sharp edges and bloody lips. He distantly notices how the boys brown eyes dance in the sunlight a little, flecked with a strange shade of yellow he can't really place, and Nico responds with a almost too quiet, “hi,” and tries not to notice the way he can almost feel his pulse quickening a little. 

(Not in the, ‘I think you're attractive and I’m fucking sexually aroused around you, but in the 'maybe I said that a little too quiet and you think I’m weird now or too fucking shy to speak right). 

Anyway, he feels his pulse quicken a little but he meets the boy’s almost breathy gaze and tries to stop his fingers shaking like they are. “I'm Nico,” he introduces, and there's a kinda uncomfortable relief when the boy seems a little surprised at being spoken too and his words of, “I’m Duncan,” seem maybe a little too fluid and breathy. Maybe not. Maybe he's imagining things.

“Cool.”

Nico drops his gaze and twists the skull ring and he hears Duncan click his tongue. “You’re the exchange, aren't you,” he asks, a little held back as though Nico will punch him if he says the wrong words, as though he's a little afraid of the boy with the dark bruising around his sad sad eyes. 

Nico raises an elegant brow and glances up. “I swear I only told, like, three people. How fast does news travel around here?” 

“Hella,” Duncan says, a grin teasing at his lips and creasing his skin that reminds Nico a little of rich soil and perfect wood. A small smile slips onto his own lips, and he looks at his hands a little bashfully. 

(It's strange, really, that Duncan’s bright teeth contrasting aesthetically against his skin can somehow steady his heart beat just a little bit, and the fish bone stuck in his throat doesn't seem so lodged into place).

“Sure, so how long do you think it would take for it to get around that I’m actually here to assassinate Dumbledore?” Snarks Nico, and watches closely, maybe a little too closely, for any negative reaction in Duncan's face, but his grin only widens and his reply of, “depends, am I on your list too?” melts into Nico's wandering thoughts maybe a little too quickly. 

 

He runs his fingers through his thick hair. “How long was I, you know, asleep?” He asks, a little awkwardly, anxiously wondering if he showed the discomfort his felt as he slept. 

Duncan clicks his tongue again. “About an hour, I think,” he mumbles a little, and then, after a hesitant pause, continues, “and, well, we all have bed memories.” His voice and eyes trail off from focus, and Nico finds himself noticing how his unblemished hands shift a little and the strange look of nostalgia creeping into his skin. 

“What's this? A goddamn therapy group?” He laughs, a little bitter, a little raw, but Duncan seems relieved for the change in subject so Nico ignore the slight burning in his throat and the blood on his lips. 

“No, it's 'the outcast wizard club’,” Duncan shoots back. 

“Sign me up.”

-

Their conversation dwindles into a comfortable silence that leaves Nico to boredly flick through some of his school books, even though the letters are merging together and it's hurts his head a little. He huffs in frustration and half-heartedly throws the book onto the opposite seat. 

Duncan looks up from where he was skimming through what looked like a old copy of 'Hogfather’ by Terry Pratchett, and raises his eyebrows at Nico. “Well.” 

Nico deftly flips him off and shoots back, “I’m dyslexic, idiot.”

Duncan hums in response. “Don't you have one of those fancy-ass reading things?”

“Yeah, I just decided that I can't be arsed to read easily today.” 

-

 

Time tastes altered here, Nico thinks, when time passes between them in an easy silence and the scenery rolling by darkens. Clouds creep over the sky, obscuring the moon a little and blocking the almost mocking lights from the stars splashed across the inky canvas. 

He changed into his robes at some point, but he can't really remember because time tastes altered here.   
(But he can remember seeing Duncan's curious eyes on his skin through the distorted reflection in the window where he eyes aren't so dark and endless).

They talk a little bit, and Nico explains the same, tragic, story again, and Duncan looks at him with those strange yellow (almost gold, but not quite) flecked brown eyes swimming with sympathy and understanding. “It's hard to lose someone you love,” he had said, voice breathy as though he's talking in a smoky dream, and Nico had met his flecked eyes with his own dark irises that aren't flecked with anything or have anything just, 'pretty’ about them, and are just, dark. 

In turn, Duncan explains a bit more about Hogwarts and Nico finds it a little strange when he starts leaning forward curiously, dark eyes on the little yellow flecks that stand out even more in their close proximity. Warm breath against his own. (He wonders when he started caring so much about this school. He wonders when he started caring.)

 

Eventually, though, the train starts to slow with a scratching sound and a plastered grin, and Nico slings his little bag over his shoulder and meets Duncan's breathy gaze. 

“Well, I guess this is it, for now, Nico,” he says, and his smile widens a little bit when he adds, “but I hope to see you again,” and then leaves Nico stood alone in the compartment with a strange look of nostalgia creeping over his features. 

 

END OF CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and if you would be so kind, please comment and give kudos.
> 
> constructive criticism is always welcome.


	5. five: are you afraid?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> are you afraid, the wolf seems to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! I've had a few questions on Nico's past so I decided to write a chapter on it, which doesn't really explain anything, but,,, 
> 
> also, can anybody spot the riverdale references whoops?

CHAPTER FIVE; ARE YOU AFRAID? 

He is damaged, sure, he knows this, but he has a burning passion and dark dark eyes and steady words just waiting to be spilled from chapped lips from smoking a little too many cigarettes when he was younger. He has welded his bones together again and stitched up his own heart, so he knows, thank god he knows, how it can break and fall apart, once more, or never again. 

And although his skin is tainted with betrayal and his blood is stained with sin, he eyes burn with an intensity that sometimes drives people away, scares them a little. Fire burning in his irises and smouldering embers on his lips.

 

-

His reflection is distorted. And in the rippled water he can barely see the silvery scar across his nose and the puckered lines on his left cheek. His skin no longer seems so stained with blood and dirt. His lips aren't split and bloody. He prefers it this way, so he figures that it’s alright

It is quiet here and the darkness falls thick and heavy around him. His jaw aches, and he can already see the ugly bruising in his broken reflection, praying that it will turn to sickly green and fade into his olive complexion before anybody else notices. 

Three days, he thinks, dark dark eyes skimming over the water, like the stones that he threw to distort his reflection. Three days.

His hands are cold, bitten by the icy air that clouds his breath into silver mist in front of him, and he burrows them deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket.

There’s a bonfire held tonight, and he can see the roaring flames dancing in the sky in the distance. He can imagine their talk and laughs in his head of his, melodies strung together and broken by the crackling of flames, but is quiet here, and while it lasts he relishes in it, bathes in it, and for the first time in a while he can't feel the stabbing in his heart. 

 

(There's a bonfire held tonight and if he tries hard enough he can imagine he is there too, but he enjoys the quiet here so he doesn't try very hard.

Somewhere amongst the stretching fields a bird sings, it's song a little sad and sang with a little melancholy, like a devil, sick of sin, and he kinda concentrates on it's song that splits through the night, but kinda doesn’t concentrate on much at all).

Tangled around his feet, the dry, kinda dead grass curls around his legs like hissing snake and the stitching on the cool leather jacket he saw a teenager with pink hair wearing when he managed to sneak out of camp for a few hours, before Jason found him and dragged him back. 

The stars overhead pinprick the expense of sheer- blackness, and the full moon is a little too bright to look at directly, so he keeps his eyes on the silver ring on his finger that glints far too much like the stars above, and his distorted reflection in the water that is far different from a mirror. 

And it’s then, as his mind wanders a little and his eyes unfocus a little, when he hears it- a howling, ear splitting, of pain and anguish and loathing and just unguarded, anger in its rawest form. In a howl that tears apart the silence and a little bit of itself, too. Waiting, and wondering which it dreads more, the question, or the answer.

He's on his feet in a second, sword drawn in a blur of dark shadows, eyes scanning the dark landscape of rolling fields and the glow of a spiteful fire. Then again, for the second time, he hears it- the howl, but it seems too alien and unfamiliar to the first, of pain and raw anger but no loathing held in that chilling sound, as if finally, the beast can prowl the night again. 

 

(He has a particular dislike for these wolves maybe to do with the time when his almost iconic avatar jacket was left behind from being far too damaged after the time when a werewolf attacked, maybe to do with the looming fact that the wolves obey the moon, just like how his sister looked at the moon and decided that maybe it is better than her annoying, immature brother. But it doesn't matter because-).

Another howl. This time of more raw anger and spitting blood and less loathing and pain and more acceptance and hunger and less humanity. But Nico understands, he gets it, they can't control it, and he can't control his legs as they move towards the sound. 

 

He can almost hear the bonfire from where he stands at the top of Half-blood hill, and he's kinda surprised no one has heard the anguished howls, but then, that would mean acceptance of the different and he knows the campers have never been too good at that. (Maybe he's a little bitter). 

Outstretched, blending with the darkness in the same way his eyes do, his sword seems to drink and absorb the cast light that cuts through the darkness, and it's serrated edge slices through the air as though it has taken the life from that, too. 

His muscles are tense, and his mind is racing, moving faster than his feet but maybe not faster than his eyes, and he's ready, so fucking ready, to feel a familiar rush when his devilish sword cuts through more than just the air. The advantage over a wolf, he thinks, is surprise, because in battle they possess speed and strength and those wicked claws that can tear through his flesh almost as well as his sword can. Not to mention the teeth.

Yellowed, bloody teeth, protruding from bloody gums and itching a bloody tongue, dripping with a venomous saliva that will contaminate his blood with only the smallest of bites, maybe not drawing blood, but drawing a whole new nightmare, instead. 

(He especially doesn't like the teeth, especially after the day in Venice when his mother took him to a dentist that maybe took a little too much joy in watching the tears pool in his eyes when his gums bled a little).

Anyway, he knows to avoid the teeth, and the claws, and the angry, piercing eyes that hold so much hostility and danger that matches the guttural howls- screams- that rip their throats bloody. He knows to avoid the teeth, and he knows surprise is always the best, too. 

 

He hears it, first, but not in a howl or a growl, but in its padded footsteps that crunch the cracked, autumn leaves underfoot that have fallen from the big oak tree not too far away. Nico doesn't really remember leaving camp bounds, and he knows if anyone finds him now that he probably won't be able to leave in three days, but, the padded footsteps are so dangerously, intoxicatingly, close, that he steps past the bounds and readies his arm a little more. 

Then he hears it again: the same, padded footsteps on the dry leaves that are a depressing shade of murky green, and he slips away into the shadows and maybe into himself a little, too 

 

(Prince prince prince).

He hears them, just for a second, the ghosts, the lost spirits, the souls, their chant behind his eyes and in his head as black engulfs his body and his mind and his thoughts. (Prince prince prince), the chant, a constant mantra because that is who he is (prince prince prince), a prince, and king of ghosts. They taunt; they laugh; they laugh they mock they taunt, and their words hang in his head and in his mind but what he hears most is their chants (prince prince prince).

Then it's over, and he barely stumbles when the shadows melt away and he catches his first, hazy sight of the wolf. (He’s been practicing, when no one can see him, because as kind as the son of Apollo is he finds it kinda insulting that he's treated like a pity case and a china doll that might shatter at any time).

Then, he sees it fully, it emerges from the darkness and it can smell him, he knows, when it’s grey nose twitches and sniffs the air, lips pulled back over its gums revealing those awful, godforsaken teeth that drip with bitter blood. And he knows to stay away from its teeth. He knows a lot and he knows nothing. It's hair is matted, both with blood and dirt, clumping over it's grey skin like forests over a landscape, the blue veins peeking through like rivers cutting past. It's spine is hunched, it's paws molding into the dry ground and it's dirty claws digging into the crack. 

It can smell him. It can smell death. But it's not afraid.

And he taunts it, he shadow-travels around it and observes the way it's hungry eyes flit from place to place with anger and the tiniest hint of desperation. But not fear. Never fear. They are creatures of the moon. And they are not afraid. 

Its eyes are deadly. Maybe not so as it's teeth, or its claws, but deadly, nonetheless. Deadly in a way that spikes fear and anxiety when it turns its nightmarish eyes on you; it's dark, bloody eyes that hold so so much anger and anger and anger.

For the third time, it howls, and again it is all raw anger and hunger and the noise shocks straight up Nico’s spine and maybe it arrives with a stab of fear (but Nico is a creature of the night, and he is not afraid).

But in the end, he gives up, even though he could do it. He could easily plunge his sword into the creatures neck and it would shatter into dust that gets carried away in the wind, but the night is young, and Nico is, too.

And he's seen too much, given too much, done too much, to be innocent, but there's a little shred of it, conserved in himself, hidden away under lock and key. Of innocence, the morality to not kill without emotion. Because the night is young, and so is Nico, and maybe is the wolf, so he watches with a strange feeling in his chest as the wolf dissolves into darkness. And he decides, with this strange feeling in his chest, that he will do anything to protect that last shred of innocence.

It howls again. The last Nico hears. And maybe, he thinks, there's a little shred of innocence in that, too.

(But he doesn't dwell on the thought too much and shadow-travels back to his cabin before he does).

\--

 

It's been a better day, Nico realises, when he curls into his bed and pulls the black duvet over his chest. Sure, he was alone when everyone else was singing and laughing and connecting, but when he sat atop the hill and when he followed the wolf that followed the moon, he thinks that, maybe, he was a little more connected, too. A little more connected to the humanity in him, the little innocence, the feeling of just, feeling.

It's been a better day. Which he loves and he hates at the same time.

(Because now his bad days will feel even more bad than usual).

His thoughts drift to the wolf, and he vaguely wonders with a second-hand grimace that the wolf is most likely still prowling the night as he lays awake and out of time, it's matted fur almost silver in the moonlight, it's teeth almost hidden in the shadows, almost, almost- never quite, just, almost. 

He wonders how many times it has howled, how many times it let a scream of its own rip through the quiet like Nico wishes he could, sometimes, let all his pain and frustration and sadness melt into the quiet of the night. He wonders. 

The clock on his bedside table reads 1:46 am in green, luminescent letters that he squints at, and it's 1:46 am when he hears the knock on his door. Quiet. Almost slurred, if that can happen with a simple knock. 

Nico frowns, a little curious, a little surprised, a little anxious. He slides from his bed, pulling on some joggers under the oversized grey shirt he wears to bed, rubbing his eyes and flinching a little at the sound of his heavy footsteps against his wooden floor. 

The shadows are thick, pulling at the corners, pulling at his will, and the little coffee maker set on the dark, marble countertop flashes with a little green light. He can see pretty well in the dark, but his eyes are heavy and his eyesight a little blurred and the sound of another knock rings through his ears almost painfully. And he’s kinda glad it’s dark outside when he opens the door and isn't suddenly blinded with light. Toobrighttooloudtoosudden. 

But then instead he's met with the familiar blond hair of resident superhero Jason Grace wearing a stupid fucking smile on his stupid fucking wine-stained lips with his stupid fucking blue blue eyes a little unfocused but still on his face. And then suddenly it's toobrighttooloudtoosudden, and Nico di Angelo is staggering past stupid fucking Jason Grace and into the stupid fucking night. 

(Because it's suddenly toobrighttooloudtoosudden, and he doesn't deal with that very well).

\--

“I’m sorry,” Jason fucking Grace apologises, even though Nico’s not really sure why because it is him who panicked and fled and sat feeling like a fucking idiot for the rest of the night. 

So he says, “it's okay,” and hopes Jason fucking Grace understands that he kinda doesn't want to talk about it (but kinda does at the same time).

Three days left, he thinks. Three days to prove that he's in control.

 

END OF CHAPTER FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, and please don't hesitate to give constructive criticism :))


	6. bones and feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they notice him, of course, white pupilless eyes turn to stare at him in a kind of misplaced curiosity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this is so short (and probably bad whoops) but i haven't updated in ages, so , here we are ?? I guess ??

CHAPTER SIX; BONES AND FEATHERS

His eyes are dark. They aren't dark brown or honey or anything that would suggest beauty and life. They are just, dark, like the shadows he controls and the darkness behind his lips.

\--

Thestrals. Gleaming masses of skeleton bones and black feathers. Dark lives, like his own- like him- and that dark aura of death that clings to them like the cold clings to his skin. Like his own, like him. 

They notice him, of course; empty white eyes turn to him and their wings flutter and project that aura of death. Creatures of the Underworld, like the Furies, or Cerberus, but they are kind and gentle and their gleaming claws aren't itching to sink into his flesh and tear it from his bones.

Shaking his head a little, he meets their stares, silently praying that they understand what he’s trying to ask to regard him with his confined anonymity that he’s began to cherish. It's strange, he realises, to have his name fall from innocent lips without a hint of fear or recognition or something that spikes the stabbing pain of sadness that always seems to linger in his chest. It's strange, but nice, and he wonders how long he can escape his own identity when he's not sure what he's running from.

Then he glances around, curious to see if any of the other students have noticed the gleaming masses of bones and feather, but, of course- of course- nobody else notices the elegant creatures and stay oblivious to the cold creeping up their spine. 

All, he realises, but three. The first, he sees, is a boy maybe his age, hair and skin dark, eyes a little empty, as though he's looking at everything but also nothing really at all. As though he doesn't want to look past his fingers but curiosity is prising them away from his skin.

The boy regards the thestrals with a kinda airy glare, all sad and angry but not trying very hard to concentrate, not really, arms hanging limply by his sides, face a little slack with crawling shadows hanging from his eyes; like a spider's legs tearing through his skin, Nico thinks, features as placid as ever but maybe his eyes glinting with something akin to understanding. 

For a second, before the boy is swept away into the sea of bodies, his hand twitches, like he is wanting to reach out, maybe to the eerie feathers of the creatures, but he pauses, glancing around again as if afraid anyone might see him.

(But they’re far too unobservant and relapsing in their own ignorance to notice him, anyway). 

Eventually, as if against his will, his composure folds in on itself, and his fingertips brush against the chilling feathers. The thestral leans into his touch, surprised by the unexpected contact, white, pupiless eyes fluttering shut. Then his hand and confidence drops, a slight realisation of panic, and he's cast away into the crowds and the thestrals are alone in their solitude and silence, again. Nico see's a flash of platinum hair, sweeping shoulders and extravagant robes, and something shoves roughly into his back and his feet are moving, again. Again. Again. Again. 

Now, he can see the carriages that the thestrals stand next too, all old-fashioned and lined in silver and reminding Nico of the carriages his mother used to take him to see. Clouds storm overhead, swirling in grey and white and black, like an old photo, Nico thinks, a little sullenly, like even the sky is screaming: you don't belong in this century, like- like-. 

Then, he sees the second, as he slips into the shadows on the wet ground and melts into the darkness, breathing heavily into the cold air, hazy mist trapped in the masses of compact bodies, far too close and far too loud, his fingers a little shaky, bottom lip bitten between his teeth. 

He sees the second, and this time it's a girl, with pale skin and her hair like her eyes: hazy, a little strange, maybe, clouded with theories and memories and symphonies, blossoming in her mind and slipping from her tongue. Her skin is pale, contrasting sharply to the dark feathers wrapped around her fingers as she threads her hand through the wings of a thestral, and to the darkness falling thick and heavy around her. 

She doesn't seem to notice (or maybe she does, and doesn't care), the curious and amused looks on her skin by the throng of students now climbing into elegant carriages, looks plainly judging and their mocking laughter ringing through his ears. 

Glinting in the orange glow cast by the lanterns swinging from the carriages, a blue badge on her robes catches his eyes. Ravenclaw, he guesses, smiling a little when she pets the thestrals one last time and then drifts through the crowds with her head in the clouds and her feet on the ground. His fingernails press into his palms. Then he's swept away into the sea, again. 

 

“Can’t...can’t you see them?”

The third, of course– of course, is Harry Potter, voice a little higher usual, startling eyes kinda panicked and kinda unhinged, as if he's seeing the world for the very first time, the glass in his glasses seeming to reflecting his panic as the dim light hits them. His friend, red hair a blazing fire, frowns at his friend like he is questioning his mental stability. 

“See what?” Ron asks, voice low and quiet and kinda scared, maybe, fingers curling around Harry’s shoulder and shaking it gently. The constellations of freckles across his pale face remind Nico of orange paint splattered against a white canvas, and he vaguely wonders what shape it would make is he connected them all; not that this is important, of course. 

Harry stumbles over his words, trailing off uncertainty, maybe slightly worried about his own mental stability, too. “Can’t you see what's pulling the carriages?” 

“Are you feeling alright, Harry?” Ron asks, and Nico watches with a trepid anticipation as Harry shakes his head and curls his hands into fists, glancing at Ron with a little fear in his green green eyes. 

“I...uh, yeah.” 

Nico slips past them, a brow raised and his lips a little bloody. His uncurls his fists, and his palms are a little red, too. 

 

\--

He sees it, emerging from the mist, a dark mass of fading turrets and black stones and sharp angles, the glow of lights from the gothic windows cutting through the mist like a knife, and his breath catches for a second; his fingers shake for a second; his lips bleed for a second.

There's a lake, all deep waves and swirls, broken by boats and flooding lights dancing across the surface, dark and foreboding like the castle looming over it and casting shadows like ink seeping from the ground and spilling into the sky. Something rests within the depths, churning and thinking and biding its time, as if waiting for the moment to break through the surface and grasp at the night, at the moon and the stars. Churning, thinking, biding its time. Waiting. 

There's a drone of chatter flooding his senses, but he can’t really hear it over the blood in his ears and the heartbeat in his chest. Suddenly it's all toomuchtoosoontooquick. His dark eyes flicker over the jutting turrets and soft lit windows and the rippling water and- and-

“Are you okay?” The voice breaks his stupor like a brick thrown at one of the glowing, gothic windows complimented by dark stone and a ticking clock. He blinks, light suddenly flooding his eyes, a burning sensation running through his head.

“Yeah,” he lies through clenched teeth, dismissing the worried look of the boy- Neville, he thinks his name is- with a airy wave of his hand. “Just a little, surprised, that’s all,” he mutters, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment of silence. 

“Oh,” Neville offers, but Nico can almost hear the words brewing on his tongue, waiting to be spilled. “You’re the exchange,” he then says, quietly, carefully, as though afraid someone may hear even though they are the only two in the carriage. 

Nico quirks a brow. “That's me,” he replies, a little flat, a little tired, and Neville opens his mouth as if to say more, but closes it after a second of hesitation. His eyes drop from Nico’s skin to his own hands, and it strange, Nico finds, that it almost burns when there's are eyes on him. He's not sure whether it's helpful, or not. 

 

For the rest of the ride, silence settles and becomes stagnant, Nico staring wistfully out of the window at the mist-shrouded castle, Neville shifting a little awkwardly in his seat and stealing glances at Nico when he thinks he isn't watching. 

(But maybe the reflection in the window reminds him a little too much of a mirror, and he's never really liked those). 

 

“Can you see them?” 

Nico looks away from the window. Neville looks away from his hands. Eyes meet. Lips a little bloody. Skin a little cold. 

“Yeah,” Nico says, after a pregnant pause, quiet, almost as a whisper, but at the same time it’s the loudest thing he can hear. He tilts his head to one side, worrying his bottom lip again, and says, “can you?” as something Nico can't exactly place flashes across Neville's kind face. 

(It's all toomuchtoosoontooquick, still, so he decides to blame it on that). 

“No,” Neville admits, and then looks as though he wants to say something more, but then quickly stops himself before he can, as though reminding himself that this boy sat opposite him with the dark sad eyes is a stranger, and he’s always been told not to talk to strangers. He keeps quiet, a mutual understanding passing between them. “Are you okay?” He asks, for the second time, the same words but sounding so very different as if spoken through different lips.

Nico laughs, bitterly, the sound scratching at his throat. “This isn't a support group, you know?” He shoots back, and there's a ringing sense of nostalgia on his tongue, when Neville looks at him with no humour in those careful features and corrects, “no, it's the ‘outcast wizard club’.”

He offers a small, gentle smile, and then Nico is looking out of the window and Neville is looking at his hands. 

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> constructive criticism always welcome xx


	7. sometimes to stay alive, you gotta kill your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and he cant– he can't breathe breathe breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credits to twenty one pilot's 'migraine' for the song title
> 
>  
> 
> also, please don't read this chapter if you get triggered by: self-harm, depression, anxiety, panic/ anxiety attacks, and if you would ever like to talk about anything, my pms are always open xx
> 
> i think this is the longest chapter yet, maybe, and sorry for the wait ahhh, but i hope you enjoy it xx
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR PERCY JACKSON, AND THE SORTING HAT SONG BELONGS TO JK. ROWLING.

CHAPTER SEVEN; SOME TIMES TO STAY ALIVE, YOU GOTTA KILL YOUR MIND.

 

The carriage pulls up close to the entrance, wheels squealing and doors creaking open. Neville stands, brushing of his robes, eyes a little distant and kinda not meeting Nico’s. 

“You coming?” He asks, offering a small smile.

“Just a minute,” Nico replies through a deep breath, nails in his palms and knuckles turning white. His eyes flit back out of window, where he sees Hogwarts looming above, encased in moonlight with the dark sky as a backdrop. Neville nods without question (which Nico’s fucking grateful for), and clambers out and Nico's looking out of the window again. 

It is more intimidating when it's shadows are clawing at his skin, dark stones chiseled and sharp and suffocating against his chest. Vines crawl up the window frames and stoop low over the roof, almost brushing against the carriage like fingers reaching out, desperate to catch anything to keep itself from slipping away into nothingness.

Squinting from the blaring lights, he can see insects crawling over the damp grass, feel them through his shoes and up his spine, all tiny claws and piercing eyes and also all on his skin. He can feel his intake of air, but with the dark stones on his chest and the insects on his skin, it is like he can't breathe at all, lips drying with blood, his vision sliding away. He can't breathe, and his mind is stalling and his fingers shaking, panic swelling inside his chest and pushing up his throat like vomit.

It’s all too much; this castle, this school, these dark stones and glaring windows, insects on the grass and water swirling in formidable darkness. And he can't breathe- he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't- 

His fingers rush to his wrist, pushing onto the skin and grasping at his pulse, breathing through dry chapped lips and to the rapid beat of his heart pulsing below his skin and above his bones. Still can't breathe- he can't breathe and he doesn't understand why no one else can see the insects and stones and water and darkness- and he can't breathe and- 

Further onto his pulse, reaching deeper, gripping onto the seat, breathe breathe breathe. Insects on his chest, light on his skin, clouded window, breathe breathe breathe. 

Head hurts, wrists do too, but he can't breathe and he can't stop and fuck, the world is slipping from his grasp like water through his fingertips. 

His pulse is racing, his breathing matching the pace as if in a race to see which can hurt him more. Nails dig deeper, and he can feel something on his wrist, pooling, dripping, cold and warm and light and dark- and he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't-

“Breathe.”

His vision slides into focus, eventually, blurred from tears and his chest heaving and his throat raw, but he's breathing. He’s breathing, breathing, breathing, to a pulse that isn't his, hearing a voice that isn’t his.

“Good, good.” 

Duncan slides into focus. And of course, of fucking course, it's him, with his airy gaze and soft tongue and deep eyes. His voice is smooth, breathy still, and a little hitched, but smooth and keeping Nico anchored to the world. And he can breathe- he can breathe he can breathe he can breathe. But oh fuck, how bad this is. 

Then, there's silence. Heavy, stagnant silence that makes Nico want to scream because it's oppressive and Duncan’s looking at him with pity and understanding. And oh fuck, how bad this is. Oh, oh fuck.

Duncan helps him stand, and Nico doesn't want him too, but his legs feel as though they will collapse and honestly, he's so fucking tired right now he's not sure if he can think of anything at all. 

He doesn't say anything, no need, no pitiful words like: 'are you okay?’, because of course he's not fucking okay with blood gushing from crescent moon wounds in his wrists. Instead, he traces his wand over the wounds and Nico watches with a sick disappointment as they close and leave only his skin stained in red. Because it hurts, his wrists fucking sting and throb a little, but there's panic still in his chest and he likes watching it ebb away with his blood when it spills from his skin. He's sick, but he has been for a long time, so he wants to believe that it's okay. 

“Nico?” Duncan murmurs, “look at me, please,” he breathes, hot against Nico’s skin, licking at his lips, so close, so fucking close. Nico tilts his head away from Duncan, looking anywhere but at him, anywhere, except the looming castle with the dark brick and glaring lights. 

His lips are sewn together, searing with pain but also a little numb, a strange sensation he can't place but kinda likes, too. So, he doesn't speak, keeps his lips together and his eyes away, hands and legs shaking and stomach heaving. Vomit threatens to flood his mouth, and he swallows thickly, dark eyes drooping to his feet with his slender, porcelain fingers reaching for the door. 

A hand grabs his wrist. He flinches; hard, tearing his wrist from Duncan’s grasp and jumping from the carriage, boots sinking into the muddy grass, insects and dark stones and moonlight turning his skin to silver. Then suddenly, he's running, the hazy blur of students filing into the giant, oak doors, wind whipping through his hair and rain spitting at his face. 

There’s footsteps behind him, fading away as he pushes his legs further, faster, faster, faster, his wrists and eyes still stinging with cuts and tears, his mind running faster than his feet but still not fast enough to process what just happened. 

He saw. He saw, and now Nico has probably ruined any chance of friendship between them; between anyone, once rumours begin to spread. For a second, he considers turning back, running from Hogwarts altogether, from the wizarding world and letting his name become forgotten into the past. 

He considers it, sure, but then, where would he go, now that camp is a distant memory and even though he is always welcome in the Underworld, he doesn't know if he can fall back into that life so deeply, after so little time? No.

And besides, he said he would try and help, at least, so there's that, and the fact that Neville is staring at him with wide, curious eyes and parted lips. 

“You okay?” He mutters under his breath, as Nico falls into step beside him, sinking into the darkness a little, keeping his eyes far far away from the steeping castle. 

“Yeah, sure,” he shoots back, glancing behind him at the sprinting figure silhouetted in the moonlight. His long shadow stretches around him. “Can you excuse me?” 

He brushes past Neville’s arm, ignoring his muffled sounds of question, and slips through the crowds and into the entrance hall, made of grey stone with a high ceiling and wide hallways, large windows sparking with shattered silver.

Harry Potter stands a few metres away from him, eyes still kinda panicked and kinda unhinged, mouth almost moving too late for the words that trickle from his lips. He’s moving his arms, animatedly, round glasses trapping the orange glow of the candles and casting shadows under his eyes. His words are dry, and Nico’s lips are, too. 

The crowds shuffle into the Great Hall, a drone of incessant chatter in his ears. His pulse is slow, now, he finds, when he slides his fingertips back to his wrists, and when he concentrates his breathing matches the metronome that is his heartbeat. 

Slowly, he blinks, breathing through the darkness that suddenly floods through his sight, as the stone walls and shuffling crowds melt into just, darkness. If he tries hard enough, he can listen past the white noise around him and focus on the life churning under his feet, the spectral life he can sense not too far away- a few metres, maybe, maybe a little more- that makes his spine straighten and tingle, lips curving into a frown and ears ringing a little. 

Ghosts. Of course. Fuck ghosts, he thinks. Fuck everything, he corrects.

When the crowd splits, he sees the first. Kinda shimmering, all wisps of silver and grey, the first ghost is illuminated by the candles that grow distorted around it, orange and warm and a little unsettling when drenched in ghostly mist. He stares at it- kinda scowls a little- with a distant look of annoyance and anger ghosting on his features, until it's translucent eyes turn, meeting his with a sudden jolt of fear, before the ghost with the bloody chains melts into the shadows. Then, Nico stares at his hands, feeling kinda powerful, kinda disgusted. 

The second thing that catches his sparse attention is the ceiling, glittering with stars that manage to peek through the swirling masses of grey, ominous clouds storming in the blackness. It spans the full length of the hall, catching his attention and then imprisoning it with the moon that slides from where it had been hidden by the clouds. Then, once again, the silver, glowing orb is obscured with grey, and Nico’s left staring at his hands again. 

He’s moving forward again, almost automatically, but also hyper aware of the way his boots slap against the grey stone underfoot, and the eyes on his skin now that most of the crowd has parted and sat down at the four, long tables. Almost automatically– until it isn't, and he's overthinking his every movement again and again. Suddenly his own breathing seems too loud. 

Panic wells in his chest again, throat drying and lips a little bloody, but he forces himself to breathe breathe breathe, because he won't panic– not in front of so many people. Instead, he pushes his feet forwards, each step lasting a millennia, each eye on him feeling like a poisoned needle, each heartbeat echoing through his chest. The distance between him and the long table where he assume all the staff sit stretches, the destination dimming, almost, until it is blurred from sight. Time is slow, and fast, confusing and clear and all the antonyms that he can't really think of, because he can't really think of much right now.

The Great Hall presses onto his chest and shoulders; his composure slips, just for a second, but Dumbledore’s blue, twinkling gaze makes it hard to believe it was ever there at all. Today, he's dressed in deep-purple robes with little silver stars spattered across the colour, almost mirroring the sky if not for the grey clouds dimming the light. The wrinkles in his skin deepen in the candlelight, reminding Nico of rivers, flooding from the icy springs in his irises and forging into his face. He doesn't really look at anyone else. Doesn't really think he can.

It's not silent (which Nico is fucking grateful for), but instead there is still the constant white noise of chatter in his ears, whispering and muttering and reminding Nico maybe a little too much of when he was back at Camp Half-Blood. But they don't really know who he is here, not really, so he hopes that that is enough. 

Flashes of gold and scarlet and silver and green and bronze and blue and black and yellow distract him a little, but he doesn't turn to look at them or take his eyes from Dumbledore’s piercing own. His arms heavy against his sides, fingers shaking a little, he reaches the table, swallowing thickly when the chatter snaps into focus. Then, as if in order, the rest of the world melts into focus again, and it's all toomuchtoosoontooquick and his heartbeat is all toomuchtoosoontooquick, too.

“Ah, Mr di Angelo.” 

Nico uses the voice as an anchor to keep himself tied down to the world, grabbing onto the syllables with shaky fingers and using all his strength to keep himself in place. For a second, his vision swims and the floor kinda sways, but he grabs onto the voice and the floor is underneath his feet again. Holy shit.

“That's me,” he answers, weakly, voice cracking a little which he hates with a burning passion as he inhales through his nose and out from his mouth. Dumbledore regards him for a moment, as if rethinking his choice to let Nico enroll, before he smiles and nods to a woman whose hair is pulled so tightly into a bun Nico almost winces. He off-handedly wonders how many fucking bobby pins she uses. 

Dumbledore then turns to face Nico, and then explains in a quiet tone to where Nico should stand and to do what. He makes a vague gesture to where a fucking group of shaken eleven year olds stand, wide eyes flitting everywhere and nowhere at all, and Nico clenches his fists, nails cutting into his palms, and then hurries uneasily back across the stone floors. 

He stands a little behind them, taking care not to make too-long eye contact and he finds himself looking at his hands again, inspecting the pale scars carved onto his skin. The candles seem to glow menacingly red. Eventually, he unclenches his fists, and his palms are kinda red, too. 

Then, he sees it, balanced precariously on a stool that looks as though it will collapse at any moment. A fucking hat, of all things, all frayed edges and dark material. Confusion dancing on his lips and blood on his palms, he quirks a brow.

There's still a buzz of white noise, but he can easily ignore it and instead he directs his attention to the stern-faced women whose heels click against the floor as she walks. With a fading scroll in her hand, she regards the students with a stiff nod, left boot brushing against the limp hat. 

Nico glances around, curious at the mixed expressions mirroring his and the others as polar opposites, thick, dark bangs caressing at his cheekbones and bow-shaped lips parted a little. The first-year’s faces are pale in the candlelight, almost ashy, some even trembling, some frozen to where they stand upon the cold cold stone. His finger shake a little, kinda slick with blood from the marks in his palms. Hesitantly, he rocks onto the balls of his feet to peer over the sea of heads kinda blocking his veiw. The hat stays still and lifeless like a inamate object. 

(Because what else is a fucking hat supposed to do)?

But then it moves, and Nico isn't sure what to think anymore. Seams split, forming what looks vaguely like a mouth, and then it sings, scratchy and loud and ringing in his ears. It sings, and Nico waits with bated breath. 

“In times of old when I was new  
And Hogwarts barely started  
The founders of our noble school  
Thought never to be parted:

United by a common goal,  
They had the selfsame yearning,  
To make the world’s best magic school  
And pass along their learning.

‘Together we will build and teach!’  
The four good friends decided  
And never did they dream that they  
Might some day be divided,

For were there such friends anywhere  
As Slytherin and Gryffindor?  
Unless it was the second pair  
Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw?

So how could it have gone so wrong?  
How could such friendships fail?  
Why, I was there and so can tell  
The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, ‘We’ll teach just those  
Whose ancestry is purest.’

Said Ravenclaw, ‘We’ll teach those whose  
Intelligence is surest.’

Said Gryffindor, ‘We’ll teach all those  
With brave deeds to their name,’

Said Hufflepuff, ‘I’ll teach the lot,  
And treat them just the same.’

These differences caused little strife  
When first they came to light,  
For each of the four founders had  
A house in which they might

Take only those they wanted, so,  
For instance, Slytherin  
Took only pure-blood wizards  
Of great cunning, just like him,

And only those of sharpest mind  
Were taught by Ravenclaw  
While the bravest and the boldest  
Went to daring Gryffindor.

Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest,  
And taught them all she knew,  
Thus the houses and their founders  
Retained friendships firm and true.

So Hogwarts worked in harmony  
For several happy years,  
But then discord crept among us  
Feeding on our faults and fears.

The houses that, like pillars four,  
Had once held up our school,  
Now turned upon each other and,  
Divided, sought to rule.

And for a while it seemed the school  
Must meet an early end,  
What with duelling and with fighting  
And the clash of friend on friend

And at last there came a morning  
When old Slytherin departed  
And though the fighting then died out  
He left us quite downhearted.

And never since the founders four  
Were whittled down to three  
Have the houses been united  
As they once were meant to be.

And now the Sorting Hat is here  
And you all know the score:  
I sort you into houses  
Because that is what I’m for,

But this year I’ll go further,  
Listen closely to my song:  
Though condemned I am to split you  
Still I worry that it’s wrong,

Though I must fulfil my duty  
And must quarter every year  
Still I wonder whether Sorting  
May not bring the end I fear.

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,  
The warning history shows,  
For our Hogwarts is in danger  
From external, deadly foes

And we must unite inside her  
Or we’ll crumble from within  
I have told you, I have warned you ...  
Let the Sorting now begin.”

Then there's a pregnant silence, and Nico isn't really sure how long it lasts, not really sure what the words mean but pretty sure that they don't mean anything good. He waits, hands itching to burrow inside pockets that aren't there, his frown and thoughts deepening with his shaking fingers. He waits, as does the whole school, in an edgy, apprehensive silence, until someone eventually claps, the sound cutting through his thoughts and silence. In a second, the rest of the hall erupts in clapping; and Nico isn't really sure what to think anymore. 

“Abercrombie, Euan.”

The woman's voice rattles through the muttering and dissolves it into silence. A boy, terrified and almost ghostly pale, startles, eyes widening with panic, before he stumbles forward towards the stool and hat. The seams close, and the hat slips back into its state of lifelessness. 

Trembling a little, the boy sits on the stool and the teacher slips the hat over his head, and it almost covers his eyes as it falls past his brows, brushing lightly against his lashes. He taps his foot on the floor, chewing on one lip, all nervous energy and restless legs. 

There’s a few seconds (or maybe it's a minute, but Nico can't really tell) of quiet, before the hat’s seam splits again, and it's shout of 'Gryffindor’, echoes through the hall. An applause of shouting and clapping spills from the table decorated in red and gold, and Abercrombie slides into a seat with his cheeks almost as red as the table cloth. 

Nico kinda tunes off for the rest, his attention and the first-year's dwindling, focus instead fixated on scratching the blood from his porcelain skin. He distantly hears the kinda scary teacher call out, “Zeller, Rose,” and the sound of clapping flooding his ears, then there's a moment of just, nothing, as he looks up and finds himself stood alone, with eyes on his skin and blood on his lips. 

Dumbledore, a fucking grin painted on his lips, beckons Nico forward with a welcoming hand and he steps from the shadows and tries to detach himself from the anxiety prickling his skin. He can hear mutters again, see curious eyes, taste unanswered questions. It distantly smells of shoe polish and wood, and he tries to focus on that and not his shaky legs as he stands opposite Dumbledore. The dark wand in his pocket suddenly feels too heavy. 

“To our newcomers,” he says, voice booming and pressing on Nico’s throat, “welcome! And to our old hands– welcome back!” He then averts his blue blue eyes from the students to Nico, and he suddenly feels oddly out of place with his dark hair and dark eyes and dark boots against the bright smiles and bright eyes and bright floor. But he meets Dumbledore’s gaze anyway, and lifts a dark brow. 

“We have a new student joining us, as I’m sure you have noticed,” the headmaster says, “and I hope you will all treat him with the kindness and hospitality that you treat your friends with. This, students and staff, is Nico di Angelo, and now, let his sorting begin!”

Applause, deafening and opressive, and Nico swallows as he sits on the stool, the hat sliding on his dark hair and resting just above his brows. 

“So.” 

He startles, suppressing his flinch, and runs his tongue over his teeth.

“Only you can hear,” the voice says again, and it doesn't take long for Nico to realise that the hat– a fucking hat– is speaking to him by some telepathic shit. 

“It's been a while since I've sorted a demigod.” 

Nico frowns. “Just sort me please, Mr. Hat.” 

It chuckles, which Nico is 90% sure isn't possible but here we fucking are with a goddamn chuckling hat on his head that can somehow read his thoughts. 

“In due time, Mr di Angelo,” it shoots back. “But first, where should we sort you to, hmm?” 

Nico audibly sighs, blinking slowly. “Look, it doesn't matter where I should be– just, just sort me where is best for my quest, okay.”

“Your quest, hmm? This is tricky, very much so. You’re a Slytherin, without a doubt, cunning, sly, sure, sure, but best for your quest? That would be Gryffindor, very much so, but to sort you into Gryffindor would not be fitting at all. Definitely not.

“Best for my quest, okay. It doesn't matter what house I should be in, just what is best, okay?” 

“Hmm.” 

Nico taps his feet in frustration, and another wave of murmurs flutter through the tables. He clenches his fists around the stool, white knuckles contrasting to his dark sleeves almost aesthetically. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” 

“It means, Mr di Angelo, that Gryffindor will be the most effective, but Slytherin is definitely your house. So, that poses a difficult situation.” 

Nico drums his fingers against the wood, half-considering ripping the hat from his hair and shadow-travelling as far away as he can manage.

“If I am to place you in Slytherin, it will be the best for you; you’ll make your real friends there; you’ll thrive, indefinitely. However, it will make your quest a little more difficult, as the best way for you to gain your information is to talking to Harry Potter and those friends of his, which will be close to impossible as a Slytherin. On the other hand, say I place you in Gryffindor and you manage to befriend a few– and if you’re lucky Harry Potter himself, that will be the best for your quest. But, with no offense intended, you probably won't fit in very well with the rest in your house, as you lack the quality of being recklessly brave. Say I put you in Gryffindor, it's both going to be beneficial and not for you, and for Slytherin the same. So I ask you, Son of Hades, what do you choose: the quest, or yourself?”

Nico pauses, eyes narrowing on the little scuff on his combat boots and mulling over the hat's words. It's a simple question, really. Him, or the quest. Him, or thousands. Him, or innocent blood spilled. It's a simple question, really, and he answers as he hears someone cough into the lingering silence. 

“Gryffindor, then, if it will be best for my quest.”

He waits, breath kinda hitched, fingers finally uncurling from the stool, as the hat stays silent on his hair. Overhead, the ceiling glitters with stars and the clouds swirl amongst the constellations, the biting silver glow of the moon masked by dull grey. He waits, and then the hat speaks.

“Gryffindor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, first, thank you for reading this chapter. i wanted to elaborate more on nico's mental health a little more, and i'm hoping to make mental health a big factor in the plot of this fic.
> 
> also, just to confirm, nico is gay as fuck in this, and of course, he will have some crushes and go on some dates (maybe ??) but solangelo is endgame, of course. 
> 
> thank you for reading, and please give kudos if you are feeling kind xx
> 
> constructive criticism is always welcome, too xx


	8. red and gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's splashes of red and gold on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit guys what's this ? and update ? it can't be.
> 
> it has literally been months, and i have no excuse except i just haven't been able to 'get' into this fic much, so that is partially why this chapter is so /so/ short welp. also, i would like to say thank you for all the people that have bookmarked and commented and kudos(ed) and in general, read, this fic, and right not i'm kinda tempted to rewrite the first chapter because they are /embarrassing/. also, i must must start using italics and spacing out more, upon further reflection, and if I do end up continuing this further, you may notice a /hella/ difference in my style.
> 
> anyway, i won't ramble much longer lmao, so onwards, i hope u don't frown too much.

Red is the colour of the tinge to his cheeks and gold is his skin in the candlelight. His dark eyes scan the sea of redheads and his fingertips balance a golden fork between them, looking at everything and nothing at all, legs bouncing up and down under the oak tables. 

He sits at the end of the table and tries to ignore the white noise of muttering in his ears, answering questions with short, one word answers and keeping his eyes on his hands. The golden tablecloth contrasts against his paleness, almost aesthetically so, the colour dancing over him like a smattering of sinful beauty gracing his skin. He wears a placid expression, concealing the anxiety at his fingertips when he grips the cutlery a little tighter to stop them from shaking. 

 

He can't remember what Dumbledore has said, exactly, after he sat down and tried to ignore the stares burning into his skin, but his purple robes catches Nico’s divided attention again and his focus lands on the wizard, once more. His features deepen in the candlelight, giving age and character to those blue blue eyes of his, when his eyebrows climb upwards at the subtle– not really– muttering buzzing around the body of students. He doesn't say anything, however, and Nico’s attention is drawn to the golden plates now covered by food that makes his stomach churn a little. 

He glances to his side, a cold feeling harbouring in his chest and prickling over his skin, when he spots the ghost from earlier hovering around Harry, Ron and Hermione, an expression of shock and fear poisoning it's features when it notices Nico’s dark dark eyes on it. It's almost severed head rocks precariously, and it's silver, glassy eyes turn back to the trio when Nico can almost feel it trying to ignore his gaze. 

 

“–the Hat gave several warnings before,” he hears it say with his gaze on the students, “always at times when it detects periods of great danger for the school. And always, of course, it's advice is the same: stand together, be strong from within.” It's voice trails of a little, and Nico barely hears Ron’s reply through the buzz in his ears. 

 

‘Ow kunnit nofe skusin danger ifzat?' mumbles Ron, cheeks puffed out and reminding Nico of a hamster, or something. 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

After that, Nico tunes them out and redirects his gaze to his plate, still empty, cold under his touch. 

 

The food is very nice, he supposes, but his stomach churns and his legs bounce under the table with nerves, so he doesn't really eat that much other than what he figures is required to look genuine. He eats, and doesn't offer to burn any, either, reasoning that it would attract too much unwanted attention that he definitely doesn't want right now.

(He ignores the nagging that says that his reluctance has something to do with the gods being the reason Nico’s childhood went up in flames, too. He ignores it, kinda). 

By now, most people have figured that he doesn't really want to be answering questions, and he’s left alone is a kind of strange solitude in his own bubble of quiet. His legs relax, stop bouncing, and brush against the bench as he swallows the last of his meal down, savouring the taste on his tongue and hoping it won't turn to bitterness like it often does. He supposes he should be grateful he can taste anything at all, unlike sometimes after he has undergone stress and shadow travel. He supposes he should be grateful for a lot of things

 

Eventually, the meals clear from the plates and platters and Dumbledore rises again, that same look of character on his features that remind Nico of Chiron, in a way. He quickly pushes the thought aside. Dumbledore grins with his teeth glinting in the candlelight.

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” says Dumbledore, blue blue eyes sweeping over the hall and outstretching his arms. 

“First-years ought to know that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to students – and a few of our older students ought to know by now, too.” From the corner of his eye, Nico see's the Gryffindor trio smirk a little to each other and he raises a brow, a part of him wondering what could possibly be in such forest.

“Mr Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four-hundred-and-sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr Filch’s office door. We have had two changes in staffing this year.”

Nico scans the staff table, lingering for a second on a woman he doesn't know how he didn't notice before. The pink of her clothes contrasts against the plain robes the rest of the staff wear, sweet, poisonous smile catching his breath his throat. His eyes narrow, and her patience does, too. 

“We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.”  
There was a round of polite applause, but it was stunted and unenthusiastic and tension thickens in the hall.

Dumbledore continues, seemingly oblivious to the mood, “Tryouts for the house Quidditch teams will take place on the –”

He breaks off, words interrupted by a subtle– not really– cough from the teacher Nico can only guess is Professor Umbridge, with her pink cardigan and violently sugared eyes. She stands, her legs short and her arms thick, wearing an expression of fake interest with honeyed words and pretty lies.   
Dumbledore look taken aback, but only for a moment, before he sits and looks inquisitively at Professor Umbridge with a almost convincing alertness if Nico didn't know better.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge simpers, “for those kind words of welcome.”

Nico, almost wincing at her voice of all breath and high-pitched tones, pulls his bow lips together and bites down on his tongue. A flare of dislike flares through his veins. 

She smiles sweetly, a flash of pointed, white teeth, and continues. “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!”

“And to see such happy little faces looking up at me!”

Nico almost chokes, glancing around at the faces around him that definitely don't look remotely happy, instead wearing frowns and glares that he mirrors.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!  
The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance.  
The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”  
Professor Umbridge pauses and bows to the teachers, as if to expect one back. Expectedly, none do, and Nico notices that Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows have drawn together tightly, her mouth a thin line and eyes like snakes. 

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay.

 

There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation …”

Nico finds his leg bouncing again, his mind slowing almost like a broken radio searching for a signal it knows it won’t find, but he forces his attention to focus and glares at his hands. 

“... because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognised as errors of judgement.

Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

 

She sits, and the silence that follows her speech is threatening, stagnant and difficult to swallow until it broken by scattered claps that eventually break into applause. Nico doesn't clap with them. 

He frowns, grasping onto any information that he can remember before he forgets it. To his left, he can hear Hermione and Ron and Harry muttering together, necks bent and heads bowed and their eyebrows all kinds of different expressions. Harry’s dark hair falls over his face, and his startling green eyes are muted and dulled as though her speech had taken something from them. Hermione is frowning, eyes accusing and tone incredulous, speaking far too fast for Nico to hear what she is saying. The fire of Ron’s hair anchors his attention, and he watches with bated breath as Dumbledore regards Professor Umbridge with a nod as he stands again. Silence, only broken by scattered, lingering mutters, rests on the hall.

 

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he says, bowing to her, expression light and polite despite the conflicting emotions in those blue blue irises Nico can't help to notice. 

“Now, as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as I said in the first notes, i apologize for the literal months of wait. that being said, i would actually be super sad to see this fanfic go, so i think i'm gonna really push myself to get out new chapters. 
> 
> however, that may mean that, while more frequent, they will probably be noticeably shorter. so, would y'all prefer longer chapters with more of a wait, or shorter with not much of one ??
> 
> anyway, as always, thank you for reading, feedback is always welcome, and i'm always looking for a beta to maybe help me make this mess a little less of a mess. yikes, these notes have been l o n g. 
> 
> xx


	9. burn on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, I guess you haven't made any friends yet?” And shit, that sounds meaner than it sounded in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 900 words of pure trash, let's be honest.
> 
> sorry it's taken so long, yikes, but thank you for reading as always !!! :)))

 

 

He watches the flames flicker in the fireplace with a strange kind of expression on his face, almost a smile but not quite, a ghost of one, maybe, that’ll flicker across his lips as he watches the fire curl around the coal with an odd kind of satisfaction. The colour splashes over his skin, and he traces the outlines of the shadows splayed across him with a gentle touch he can barely feel.

 

The common room is quiet, pleasantly so, except for the crackling of the fire a buzz of white noise. There's the sound of talking, barely audible (but his attuned senses seem to leak into his state of relaxation), filtering from one of the dorms above his head. He taps his feet, blinks a few times to try and keep himself awake and swallows down his fatigue like a hard-to-swallow pill. 

 

The fire burns on as darkness floods the windows, their golden drapes hanging lazily, almost touching but not quite in a way that makes paranoia slither up Nico's spine, but he ignores the buzz and runs a gentle finger over the thread of the crimson sofa sunken under his weight. 

 

Quietly, as if not to awaken something yet to fall asleep, he rises from the sofa and pads over to one of the windows. Despite the coldness of the glass, it doesn't fog under his breath as he presses his forehead against it, seeing almost perfectly through the vast darkness stretching ahead. 

 

There's a flutter of wings, a flash of bright  _ bright  _ meeting his own when he taps on the glass, quietly, but loud enough to startle the crow perched on the painted frame. A flutter of wings and a flash of eyes and it's caw echoes through his ears. 

The fire burns on but he himself does not. 

 

\---

 

Neville stares at the red drapes shadowing him and tries to ignore the restlessness from his legs. Steady breathing rings through his ears, and he knows, can somehow feel it in the lazy slumber of the air, that he is the only one awake. A soft glow emits from one the orange candles he thinks maybe Dean forgot to blow out, after the argument, a petty argument built on lies and jumbled words strung together to make  _ facts. _

Neville figures he shouldn't be surprised anymore. He wonder where the dark-haired dark-eyed boy is.

 

_ Nico _ , he thinks,  _ is his name _ ,  _ Nico di Angelo _ . Italian, most likely, matched with dark hair and darker eyes that remind him of broken,  _ shattered _ glass. He wonders if his mind is the same. 

 

Casting a glance to the vacant bed, Neville quietly slides out from his sheets and drags a hand under his eyes, blinking at the sting of the bright light when he slips out of the dorm. The stairs creak a little, as if to warn the boy in the common room to await another presence, and Neville coughs into his fist as he turns the corner.

 

The boy,  _ Nico _ , he reminds himself, turns from his place at the window, a surprised expression clouding his usually unreadable features, and Neville is struck with the realisation of the sudden _ , vulnerability,  _ of the dark-haired boy, the  _ human _ in his that he had not seen before. His dark lashes dust over his cheekbones, high, sharp, cheekbones that give Neville the sad impression that he doesn't eat enough, and his he almost steps away from the intensity of those dark  _ dark  _ eyes of shattered glass. 

 

“Couldn't sleep?” Nico says, the red ever-staining his lips highlighted in the firelight, dark bangs spilling over his face. 

 

Neville looks away from Nico's burning gaze. “I guess not?” He thumbs the loose threads hanging from the bottom of his pajama top, feeling awfully out of place being with Nico in his bright colours, the darkness of the latter's eyes melting into his black sweatshirt and sweatpants, as though the shadows themselves are twisting around him, moving at his will, churning–

 

He pushes the thoughts aside and forces himself to meets Nico's endless eyes. 

 

In response, Nico hums and turns back to the window, the feeling of his eyes on Neville's skin still lingering, ever-lingering, like his fingertips are still ghosting over him. The fire burns on, as does his gaze. 

 

Forcing his thoughts astray, Neville slumps onto the nearest sofa and crosses his legs beneath him, unsure of what to do with his hands so takes to threading together his fingers. He finds his focus panning on Nico's back. 

 

“How long have you been down here?” He asks, eventually, when the silence stretches too long, though Nico doesn't seem to notice. Neville watches as he taps on the glass, seeing the corners of the smaller boys mouth twitch upwards, maybe the closest he has ever see to a smile on his ever-stained lips. 

 

Nico shrugs, finally turning again. His hands slip in his pockets. “Not sure, really.” He flicks his gaze from the window to Neville, eyes as dark as ever but gaze somehow softer, skin almost golden in the light. Neville decides he likes this Nico more, completely human, completely young. 

 

“So, I guess you haven't made any friends yet?” And  _ shit,  _ that sounds meaner than it sounded in his head. “No– wait, I didn't mean–”

 

“Neville, I get what you mean,  _ idiota.”  _

 

(He isn't an expert on Italian but he can guess what that means, and he doesn't know whether to be offended or relieved Nico hasn't stabbed him. He goes with relieved).

 

“But, since you asked,” Nico starts, “I don't think so?”

 

“You don't  _ think  _ so?”

 

Nico shrugs, stepping away from the window. “Anyways, you should probably go to bed Neville. You look like you're gonna pass out.” He makes his way over to the little door in the corner and throws a glance over his shoulder. 

 

“Where are you going.”

 

“I don't know.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe the next chapter won't take so long–
> 
> maybe, maybe,,,
> 
> feedback and kudos are always v v appreciated xx :)))(


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